


Beneficial to Us All

by LollipopCop



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollipopCop/pseuds/LollipopCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is devastated when his parents put him into an arranged marriage. Being forced to marry a stranger, John thinks all hope is lost for love and finding his soulmate...or is it?<br/>Rated E for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Announcement

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wanted to try writing a chapter-story without abandoning it for the first time in two years. I hope I don't regret this.

“But it isn’t fair!” John protested for the sixth time. “How could you do this to me?!”

“John,” Mr. Watson frowned, “you’re overreacting.”

“‘Overreacting’?” he stared at his father incredulously. “You’re marrying me off to some bloke I don’t know. How am I ‘overreacting’?!”

“You might like this boy,” his mother supplied unhelpfully.

John could not believe this was happening to him. He woke up that morning in a good mood, ready to start the day with a smile on his face, when his parents said they had an important announcement. They told John that he would be marrying some man (was Holmes his name? John couldn’t remember or care) with such excitement as if it were good news. They seemed honestly surprised that John had a problem with marrying a stranger.

John was so outraged he thought he might vomit. “How could you do this to me?” he asked again, but quieter this time.

“Your marriage will benefit our entire family,” Mrs. Watson said. “The Holmeses are aristocrats. They’re a family of geniuses, from what I understand.”

“So that’s it, hm? You’re marrying me off to raise your social class.” John never felt more disgusted with his parents in his whole life. He knew they were shallow, but he never thought they would stoop this low.

“And this will benefit the Holmes family,” Mr. Watson said. “They’re having financial troubles. We made them a deal: if their son marries you, we help them out a bit. It works out for everyone.”

“Except _me!”_ he threw his hands in the air. “And I’m sure that Holmes guy doesn’t want a part of this, either!”

“Now, that’s enough!” Mrs. Watson snapped. “You are marrying Sherlock Holmes or you won’t show your face to this family again!”

Sherlock. So that was his name.

“Do you honestly think I care?” John smiled tightly. “I’m 24 years-old; I’m an adult and I can do what I want.”

“We’ll cut you off from family funds. How will you live?”

“I’ll join the army.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Mr. Watson yelled.

John clenched his hands into fists. His blood was boiling in his veins and he suddenly had no qualms with the idea of punching his parents in their arrogant faces. “You’re taking my whole life away.”

Mrs. Watson rolled her eyes. “Now, don’t be so dramatic. Marriage doesn’t mean the end of everything. I’m sure Sherlock will allow you to be with whomever you please. After all, this is only a marriage of convenience.”

That didn’t make John feel any better. In fact, he felt like his heart was being twisted and doused in ice. He inhaled slowly and released his breath in a sigh. “When am I meeting him?”

“Tomorrow,” said Mr. Watson, “at noon. We’ll be going over their house to settle everything.”

John nodded and went upstairs to his room without another word. His argument with his parents lasted for an hour and it resolved nothing. There was no use in trying. He hated his parents for making him feel so helpless. It was a feeling he had experienced since his childhood. They _always_ made decisions for him. In the end, it really wasn't surprising that they decided who he was going to marry, though it was no less infuriating. 

Once on his bed, he clutched a pillow to his chest and started to shake. John was a romantic and had always dreamed of marrying someone he loved—his soul mate, even. He hadn’t dated as many girls as his classmates liked to think, but he took each relationship seriously. Now, his all of his dreams of love and finding his soul mate were wiped away within a single morning.

 _The army doesn’t sound too bad compared to this,_ he thought bitterly as tears his hit pillow.

* * *

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Are we really that desperate that you’ve resorting to marrying me off to the _nouveau riche?”_

Mrs. Holmes frowned, her arms tightening around her youngest boy. “I am sorry, Sherly, but it is for the best. They’re successful business people!”

“But he’s going to be so dull!” Sherlock whined and wiggled out of his mother’s embrace. "They always are, those business types." Sherlock honestly didn’t care that he was being married off; it's not as if he planned to find love (he cringed at the thought) and get married on his own, anyway. But his fiancé sounded so _dull.  
_

“Even his name sounds boring,” Sherlock pouted. “John Watson. How average.”

“It is average,” Mr. Holmes indulged him with a small smile, “but they have money—money that we need.”

“Why must I suffer for this? I didn’t blow all of our money away.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Holmes frowned.

It was a low blow and Sherlock knew it.

The cause of their troubles was this: Mr. Holmes was a kind man who loved his wife and sons dearly. He also loved gambling very dearly. He went to therapy and worked through his addiction, but not without leading his family to bankruptcy first. Sherlock, who had always loved his father (even if he was a bit slow), was extremely disappointed in him.

Mr. Holmes was hurt by his son’s comment and Mrs. Holmes looked murderous, so Sherlock muttered, “Sorry.”

“The Watsons are coming over here tomorrow to work out all the details,” Mrs. Holmes told him. “Please don’t write John off right away. Who knows, you might like him!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh yes, because that’s highly probable. Why not marry off Mycroft?”

“John is closer to your age than Mycroft’s,” Mrs. Holmes said.

“So?”

“Well, the Watsons agreed that John would get along better with someone close to his age.”

“This isn’t a play-date, Mummy, it’s marriage.”

“I’m aware.”

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms. “Will I have to live with him?”

“Yes.”

“Will I have to spend time with him? Actually _talk_ to him?”

Mrs. Holmes smiled. “Once you two are married, you can do whatever you please.”

Sherlock considered this. Living with John didn’t necessarily mean he had to interact with him. After all, Sherlock lived with Mycroft for years (before he went to uni) and weeks went by without the two of them even looking at each other. John might not want to talk to Sherlock. They didn’t have to kiss or do couple-y stuff. Sherlock would just have to inform John that he had no desire for a relationship of any sort. Problem solved. 

It would be like living with a flatmate.

Sherlock’s lip twitched into a grin. “I accept the arrangement.”

* * *

 

John was filled with dread on the way to meet his future husband. A shudder ran through his bones. _Husband._

Harry, for once, understood his anger. “It’s absolute shit, Johnny,” she agreed. “I wish I could help you in some way. I really do. But you know Mom and Dad; there’s no stopping them once they’ve got an idea in their head.”

Mrs. Watson kept fussing with John’s hair, “I told you to put gel in you hair.”

“Didn’t care enough,” he muttered. He wasn’t even trying to put on a happy face for his parents. They could go to hell, as far as he was concerned.

Their car pulled up in the driveway to the Holmes’ house and John’s heart thudded painfully. He was too caught up in self-pity to notice that he was standing on the porch with his parents until someone answered the door.

A woman with warm blue eyes and a soft smile stood in the threshold. “Welcome, welcome!” She stuck out her hand, “You must be John. I’m Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock’s mother.”

John had the politeness to force a smile. “Yes, hello,” he shook her hand.

“Oh, you’re a handsome boy. Come in, everyone, come in.”

The inside of the house was a nice size and had a warm, cozy feel to it. John saw an older man that he assumed was Sherlock’s father. He, too, wore a warm smile. “Hello, there. Shall we discuss everything in the sitting room? I’ve made tea.”

“Yes,” Mr. Watson said, “that sounds lovely. John, why don’t you go and talk to Sherlock?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” said Mrs. Holmes. “He should be upstairs in his room. It’s two doors to the left.”

“Um, okay. Sure.” John had no desire to meet his future husband. John had no desire to be in this house.

The Holmeses and Watsons disappeared into the sitting room, leaving John alone in the unfamiliar house. John briefly wondered how the hell his parents even met these people when music started to float down the stairs. It sounded like violin music. Curious, John walked up the stairs and followed the sound. The melody was soothing, but had a melancholy undertone. John didn’t recognize it, but he was never one for classical music. John’s feet carried him to a door that was slightly ajar. He looked inside to see a man, perhaps a couple years or so younger than he, playing a violin.

The man’s eyes were closed and he was slightly swaying his narrow hips to the music. The only light in the room was coming in from the window and highlighted the man’s mess of curly hair, the tips appearing light brown. The man's face was partially hidden in the darkness, but he looked peaceful.

John didn’t know how long he stared at the stranger and let himself be absorbed in the music. There was something hypnotizing about the scene.

The last note faded and into the air. John breathed out, "Amazing." 

The man’s light eyes opened in surprise, and it finally occurred to John that he was staring at his fiancé.


	2. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have their first conversation. Unsurprisingly, they got off to a rough start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, thank you for the kudos! I would have updated sooner, but school has been a monster (what else is new?).

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open when he heard an unfamiliar voice. Someone was standing in his doorway. For a few long moments, the men stared at each other with curiosity, taking each other in. The stranger was rather short with blond hair and dark blue eyes and donning a hideous green jumper that made Sherlock want to vomit. Sherlock noted that the man was only slightly older than himself, though his eyes held a tiredness that made him appear weary. He was unconventionally attractive, Sherlock mused.

Oh.

Sherlock nearly scolded himself aloud; the man was obviously his betrothed. He should have realized that within a second.

He lowered his violin slowly. “John Watson, I presume?”

“Yeah. Sherlock Holmes?”

“Obviously,” he put his violin away in its case and set it on his bed. When John didn’t say anything, Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Are you going to stand in my doorway the entire time?”

“Oh, sorry,” John stepped into the room. “And sorry, too, for watching you play without you knowing. I just followed the noise and, well, it was very good.”

Sherlock couldn’t suppress a slight grin, unwillingly warming up to John. Since he stepped into the room, the sunlight coming in from the window was making John’s hair golden.

Sherlock looked away and cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

A silence came upon them that Sherlock didn’t know how to break.

John’s brain scrambled for small talk and he looked around the room for inspiration. His eyes landed on the periodic table hung up on the wall in a frame. “You like chemistry?”

Sherlock turned to look at the picture. “Oh, yes. I experiment a bit.”

“That’s nice, very nice. Find out anything interesting?”

“A bit. I mainly experiment on body parts.”

John looked surprised, but not horrified as expected. “Body parts. Right. Okay. Um, where do you get them?”

“Bart’s morgue.” John nodded and silence prevailed again, more uncomfortable this time. He sighed, “Look, Sherlock—can I call you Sherlock? Yeah? Okay. We should…talk about this,” he winced at his own words.

“Talk about what?”

John stared at him incredulously. “The marriage!”

“Oh, that?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock shrugged. “What’s there to discuss? We know what’s going to happen. It’s inevitable, I’m afraid.”

“Which is why we should talk about it.”

“What’s there to say?” Sherlock asked genuinely. “Our marriage will be an arrangement and nothing more. If you’re worried about being tied down, there’s no reason to be; I have no need for a spouse. You can be with whomever you please. Perhaps we could get a divorce at some point, if you want. We would definitely have to wait a few years or else our families would have our heads, don’t you agree?”

John blinked slowly. “Does this really mean so little to you?”

“What’s the problem? It isn’t as if you want to marry me.” Sherlock was getting irritated. He hated when people were so emotional.

John shook his head. “You seem so unaffected by this.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

“Of course I am.”

“Why? Marriage doesn't change anything. We're two strangers who will be living together. It's like a flat-share.”

John laughed bitterly and shook his head again. “Oh, you’re a right wanker, aren’t you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, now truly annoyed. “Don’t make a scene, it’s completely unnecessary.”

John scowled. "And I thought I might actually tolerate my fiancé. Silly me."

"Yes, silly you. Did you think you would be paired with the love of your life? Are you that foolish?"

John made a sound not unlike a growl, “Now, you listen here—”

“Sherlock! John!”

They turned their heads and Sherlock walked out of the room to the top of the stairs. “Yes, Mummy?”

“Time to come downstairs!”

Sherlock turned to John. “I’m assuming you heard that.”

John nodded, attempting to swallow his anger. _This prick._

Sherlock attempted to resist rolling his eyes again. _This idiot._

They went downstairs to their parents.

* * *

 

Sherlock and John didn’t really listen to anything their parents told them. They talked about boring things, anyway—who was going to be on the guest list, when they were getting fitted for their suits, what color the plates would be, and things of that nature.

“Of course you’d want to show off and have a big affair,” John muttered to his parents.

John’s parents glared.

Sherlock’s parents looked disapprovingly.

Sherlock was amused.

“Listen,” Mrs. Holmes said, “the wedding is a month from today. You two will move in together immediately after that.”

John’s shoulders slumped. “A month?”

“A month.”

Sherlock didn’t care. In a way, he just wanted to get this whole thing over with. “Where will we live?” he asked.

Mr. Watson smiled, “Well, we figured that you two could choose. Any place in England. It’s your choice.”

“Oh, letting us choose something in this situation, are you?” John snapped.

“John!” Mr. Watson scolded.

Sherlock smirked. John may have been annoyingly emotional, but he was interesting.

“Well, I think it’s time to go,” said Mrs. Watson awkwardly. “It’s a shame you two couldn’t spend more time together, but you’ll have other opportunities before you marry.”

“We can’t leave you alone too long, of course,” Mrs. Holmes said casually. “No sex before marriage.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks burn and his jaw dropped. “Sex with _him?”_ Sherlock waved his arm in John’s general direction. “Please, I have higher standards than that.” Which was an absolute lie. John may have been an idiot, but he was attractive. Or, he would be attractive if Sherlock cared about any of that rubbish.

“Don’t flatter yourself, bastard” John said lowly, almost dangerously.

Sherlock saw John’s hand clench into a fist. “You’re very quick to anger, aren’t you?”

“You started it!”

“Enough!” Mr. Watson cut in. “It’s time to go.”

They said their goodbyes and Sherlock and John shook hands roughly with tight smiles.

* * *

 

Six days later, John was lamenting to Mike Stamford about how much of an arse Sherlock was and about the situation in general.

“That’s utter shit, mate,” Mike agreed. “I knew your parents were controlling, but…”

“I know,” John stared at his empty glass. “The nerve of them to get angry because I don’t want to do this.”

“So, who’s the guy?” Mike took a sip of his drink.

“Oh, you probably don’t know him. His name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Mike chocked. “Sherlock? They’re setting you up with _Sherlock?”_

“You know him?” John looked at Mike in surprise.

“Oh, yeah. He snoops around Bart’s a lot.”

“He did tell me that,” John recalled. “Have you talked to him?”

He nodded. “He’s…well, you’ve met him.”

“He’s a prick.”

Mike snorted. “I wasn’t going to be the one to say it, but yeah.”

“He made it perfectly clear that our marriage is an arrangement and nothing more,” the words tasted sour on John’s tongue.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Mike raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Yeah. I mean, he said that I could go out and cheat on him and he wouldn’t care. He even suggested getting a divorce in a few years.”

“That sounds like something he would say,” Mike smirked. “You seem bothered by it. Do you _want_ to marry him?”

“Of course not!” John looked scandalized.

“Then it seems like he gave you the best solution in this situation.”

It was true. Not being committed to Sherlock was the best John could hope for. He knew that, so why had Sherlock’s words stung him? Was it the calculated manner in which Sherlock had said them?

“I guess,” John said slowly, “it bothers me that he’s so unaffected by this. How can he not care?”

“Not everyone is a romantic like you, John,” Mike gave him a small smile. “It could be that he just isn’t the type to settle down. It seems that way, at least.”

“Maybe.” John’s phone chimed an alarm. “I actually have to go meet him now. We’re going to look for a place to live,” he explained with a grimace.

“Good luck,” Mike raised his glass with a smile. “Living with Sherlock. Wow. You’ll have to tell me what that’s like.”

John sighed. “Yeah, yeah.”

* * *

 

John’s parents gave them a list of available houses to choose from. Within two hours they visited all of the homes and had gotten absolutely nowhere.

“That was boring,” Sherlock announced while they walked down the sidewalk.

John was trying not to punch him in the face. “I’m not the one who found something wrong with every house we visited!”

“It’s not my fault they were all inadequate.”

“Look,” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm (perhaps a bit too roughly) so he stopped walking. Sherlock shot daggers at John’s hand where it touched his arm, but John was unfazed. “We need to pick somewhere. The list my parents gave was just a suggestion. We could go anywhere in the country.”

“Really?” Sherlock perked up.

“Yes, didn’t you listen to my parents say that?”

“No,” he said honestly.

John looked torn between exasperated and amused.

Sherlock suddenly remembered that Mrs. Hudson, a former client, had a flat up for rent in London. “In that case,” said Sherlock, “I think I know a place.”

“All right, lead the way.”

“Okay.” Sherlock looked down. “You can stop holding my arm, John.”

“Oh,” he removed his hand. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Sherlock led John to Baker Street. “Do you have any reservations about living in a flat?”

“No, not really. We’re going to look at a flat? My parents won’t be happy about that.”

“Which is exactly why we’re going to do it.”

John grinned, “Absolutely.”

Sherlock liked John’s willingness to disappoint his parents. In that respect, he was the very opposite of Mycroft. Anyone being unlike Mycroft was good in Sherlock’s book.

Sherlock rang the doorbell and Mrs. Hudson answered. “Sherlock!” she cried and pulled him into her arms.

Sherlock briefly hugged her back. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” He noticed that she looked much better now that her husband was gone.

“What brings you here?”

“I understand that you’re renting out 221B?”

“Oh, yes. Are you thinking about moving in?”

 _Obviously._ Sherlock liked the woman, but she could be so tedious. “Yes, my fiancé and I are looking for accommodations.”

“Fiancé?” Mrs. Hudson noticed John for the first time. “Oh, hello!”

“Hello,” John smiled.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson put her hand over her heart, “I knew you’d find someone!”

Sherlock felt pleased until John cut in, “No, we’re not…It isn’t like that.”

“It isn’t?” “It’s an arranged marriage,” John explained.

Sherlock felt strangely hurt that John jumped in to clarify that he wasn’t marrying him by choice.

Mrs. Hudson’s smile widened. “I can just tell that you two will warm up to each other in time. Come inside, boys. I’ll give you a few minutes to have a look at the flat.”

221B had awful wallpaper, a sofa and two armchairs near a fireplace, a kitchen table, a refrigerator, a functioning toilet and a shower, and two empty bedrooms. Sherlock thought it was perfect.

“This could be very nice,” said John.

“Yes,” Sherlock looked around the sitting room once more. “I agree. It’s a fine size for two people and it’s in London.”

“You like London?”

“Life outside of the city is boring.”

“True,” John nodded. “I never liked life in the countryside. So, how do you know Mrs. Hudson?”

“I helped out with her husband’s execution in Florida a couple years back.”

“Sorry, you saved her husband from execution?”

“Oh no, I ensured it,” he smiled.

John opened his mouth and closed it. He stared at Sherlock with slightly widened eyes. “You go to the morgue and experiment on body parts and you ensure executions. So, what is exactly it that you do?”

Sherlock put his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked on the balls of his heels, biting his lip to fight off a grin. He liked this bit. “I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world.”

“Is that like a private detective?”

“No,” Sherlock said, disappointed. “When the police’s incompetence interferes with solving a case, which is always, they consult me.”

“Police let you in on crime scenes?”

“Yes.”

“How do they not kick you out?”

“They need me. It helps that I got on the good side of D.I. Lestrade.” Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Lestrade’s ID. “I pickpocket him when he’s annoying, see?”

John, to Sherlock’s surprise, burst into giggles.

“What?” Sherlock frowned.

“Just, wow. You pickpocket police officers for fun. I’m marrying a madman.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, it is unfortunate for you.”

John’s giggles died down and he shook his head. “You’ll have to tell me about your cases.”

“You want to hear about them?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, why wouldn’t I?”

John was smiling. It was really the first time Sherlock had seen John fully smile. It was a very nice smile. Sherlock mentally slapped himself. Why did his thoughts suddenly resemble that of a toddler?

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the open door. “So, what do you think? There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

“Of course we’ll need two,” John said immediately.

“You never know!” Mrs. Hudson grinned cheekily. 

John cleared his throat, “Yeah, no.”

Sherlock felt a wave of hurt again. What, was John really that repulsed of him that he felt the need to clarify that no, he would not be sharing a bed with Sherlock?

“We will be needing two,” Sherlock confirmed. “The thought of sharing a bed with him disgusts me.”

“Likewise," John smiled brightly and falsely. 

Mrs. Hudson’s mischievous expression to Sherlock’s discomfort, did not falter. “Sure, dears. Whatever you say. So, you will be moving in?”

Sherlock nodded silently, mulling over the odd feeling in his chest.

* * *

 

Sherlock left John to make arrangements about moving in and he stalked out of the flat with his hands in his coat pockets.

“Sherlock!”

_God, what does he want?_

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was closer as he came down the steps.

“What?” Sherlock turned to him.

John shut the door to 221 and crossed his arms. “This isn’t going to work.”

“What do you mean?”

“This whole,” he waved his hand between them, “hostility between us. We’re going to be miserable living together. Look, I’m saying that we got off on the wrong foot. We should at least be civil, right?”

“I suppose,” he said briskly. He didn’t care if he had to live with someone he disliked. He could always ignore John. That wouldn’t be difficult.

“I’m trying to be nice,” John said.

“The status of our relationship is irrelevant to me,” Sherlock sniffed.

John was visibly holding back his anger. “You’re not helping.”

“I just said—”

 _“Shut up,”_ John said firmly.

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut on its own accord.

After a beat, John spoke softly, “Can’t we be friends?”

_“Friends?”_

“Yeah, something wrong with that?”

“I…” Nothing would be wrong with that. Nothing at all. Sherlock realized he hadn’t said that out loud, so he shook his head.

“Good,” John’s lips tilted into a half-smile. “We should try to make the best of this.” He stuck out his hand. “Friends?”

Sherlock shook his hand. “Friends.”  John’s hand was warm and felt strong. Now that Sherlock was really looking at him, he saw that John looked slightly muscular. What did he look like under his jumpers?

“Sherlock? Hello?”

Sherlock came back to reality. “Yes?”

“I said I’m going now. We have to meet again to get fitted for our tuxes. I’ll see you then.”

“Yes, goodbye.”

And if Sherlock were looking forward to seeing John again, he squashed the thought immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are so dumb. I love them.


	3. Arguments and Crime Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts John's desire for danger. John wants to punch him. In the end, they bond over murder. What else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An important note:  
> \--The point of view will switch from chapter to chapter. So this chapter is John's point of view, and the next will be told in Sherlock's.  
> General note:  
> \--There's some angst in this chapter, but not a lot. I don't like writing angst, honestly.  
> \--"A Study in Pink" is in this chapter, but it's brief. We all know the story; I didn't want to bore you.  
> \--Someone said that this story reminds them of Victor and Victoria from "Corpse Bride". That was the exact inspiration for this story :P  
> \--Someone asked about John's relationship with the military in this story. It will be revealed in this chapter
> 
> Thanks for the kudos, as always!

When John and Sherlock went to get fitted for their tuxes, Sherlock was acting strangely skittish. He was texting furiously and, when John would ask if anything was wrong, flashing John smiles that were just a bit too bright. Sherlock was a little odd, John thought, so he just let him be.

John’s measurements were taken while Sherlock was texting away. John was tempted to ask who he was talking to, but decided against it. He could imagine Sherlock either ignoring him or telling him it was none of his business. Or giving him more creepy smiles.

“Sherlock,” John tapped his shoulder. “Put down the phone for a minute. It’s your turn.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed and shoved his phone in his jacket pocket. John watched the measuring tape wrap around Sherlock’s thin waist, making his arse stick out slightly.

Oh.

Well, that’s a new discovery. Sherlock had a very round arse, hugged perfectly by his trousers. And he had long legs. Very long legs. John felt himself lick his lips. Shit, how had he not noticed before? Sherlock’s figure was…very appealing.

Sherlock caught John’s gaze in the mirror in front of him and raised an eyebrow, looking confused more than anything. John cleared his throat and looked away, cursing himself. He had experienced fleeting attraction to other men before, but he never acted on it. Maybe if he didn’t look at Sherlock’s body again, John wouldn’t be attracted. Yeah. _That’ll work._

“I hate formal attire,” Sherlock grumbled to him after his measurements were taken.

“You wear suits as everyday clothes,” John pointed out, still embarrassed and resolutely looking at an array of neckties and not at Sherlock.

Sherlock sniffed, “Yes, but I don’t wear _ties.”_

“Our parents want us to.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sherlock muttered.

In the end, they settled on black suits with dark red ties. Neither really cared about what they would look like, but they looked good. Sherlock looked good. _Stop it, John._

As they walked out of the shop, Sherlock suddenly said, “I’m hungry. Want lunch?”

“Um, sure,” John said. He actually wanted to get away from Sherlock for the day, but it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that John was having a minor crisis. Turning Sherlock down would be impolite.

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock said hurriedly.

Damn, was he that transparent? “No, it’s fine. Let’s go.”

They stopped in a nearby café and sat down at a table by the window. Sherlock ordered some pastry that looked disgustingly sweet and John ordered a coffee, an awkward silence between them. Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept distractedly fiddling with his napkin. After a few minutes, Sherlock’s eyes settled on John. “So,” he said casually, “how did your parents react to you choosing a flat?”

John smirked. “They were horrified. They begged me to change my mind because my father said, and I quote, ‘No son of mine will live in such pedestrian quarters.’ The pretentious git.”

Sherlock grinned. “Excellent. My parents were displeased, as well, though for different reasons.”

“Why were yours upset?”

“They want the best for me, etcetera, etcetera,” he rolled his eyes. “Boring reasons, really. My brother’s reaction was similar to your parents’, however.”

“Your brother?” John didn’t remember his parents mentioning that Sherlock had a sibling.

“Yes, he’s just as stuck-up as your parents,” said Sherlock, looking pained at the mention of this apparently obnoxious brother.

John snorted. “How unfortunate. You know, I feel like a teen again,” he admitted, “doing anything possible to go against my parents. Bit immature, but, ah well.”

“They’ve prevented you from doing what you wanted in the past, haven’t they?”

The previous light-heartedness of the conversation faded under Sherlock’s intense gaze.

“Yeah,” John said warily, “that’s what controlling parents tend to do.”

“You have a medical degree, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

John’s fingers clenched around the coffee cup and he tilted his head to the side curiously. “Yes, how did you know that?”

Sherlock folded his hands in front of his lips and leaned forward on his elbows. “You detest living with your parents not because of their arrogance, though that certainly is a factor, but because the monotony of it all stifles you; it’s written all over your face, only an idiot would miss it. You tried to escape.”

John swallowed, his heart hammering. “Escape?” Oh god, how did their faces get so close? What the hell was happening?

“The army,” Sherlock whispered.

John stopped breathing. “What?”

Sherlock spoke confidently, “You crave danger, yet want to help others. Your dream job, an army doctor, was prevented by your parents’ connections.”

John grabbed Sherlock by the scarf, causing the other man’s eyes to widen in surprise. Other patrons looked at them, but John couldn’t care less. “Shut. Up,” he said lowly. “I don’t know where or how you found that out, but it's none of your goddamned business.” He let go of Sherlock’s scarf roughly, his blood boiling.

Sherlock fixed his scarf, looking wounded. “I meant no harm. I forgot that you’re quick to anger. My mistake.”

John glared at him and took four deep breaths in order to prevent himself from strangling Sherlock right there in the middle of the café.

Sherlock, the dick, kept talking, “I was merely stating the obvious that—”

“No,” John held up a hand. “What, were you trying to prove how clever you are? Showing off your detective skills, or whatever it is you do? Fuck you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth shut with a click of his teeth.

They were silent for an unbearable minute, John fuming and Sherlock fiddling with his napkin again. How _dare_ that arsehole. Just when they started getting along, he had to open his mouth and ruin it. John cringed at the fact that he was staring at the arrogant sod’s arse just half an hour ago. John felt as if his privacy was invaded, and in a way that was true. How did Sherlock about his failed military application? Better yet, why the hell did he bring it up? 

“You do get bored,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“No, John, let me finish.”

John sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Go on.” This better be good, or he really was going to punch Sherlock in the face.

“You crave excitement. Right?” The hesitance from earlier showed up again.

John nodded.

“I was just wondering if you would accompany me to one of my cases.”

John blinked. “You…what?”

“You heard me,” he frowned.

“You want me to go with you?”

“I just said so,” Sherlock huffed.

“Why?”

Sherlock shrugged with growing irritation and looked out the window with a pout. Suddenly, Sherlock’s behavior during that day started to make sense to John—the unexplained nervousness, the invitation to lunch, bringing up John’s medical degree and his desire for danger (which was something John would only admit to himself in the darkest hours of the night). The way Sherlock asked John to go with him was tentative, almost like an invitation to a date. John nearly laughed at the thought.

But still, why did Sherlock want John to join him?

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “seriously, how did you know that about me?”

Sherlock looked back at him. “As I said: it’s written all over your face. I’m not criticizing you, John. I get bored by the everyday routine, too. If you come with me," he said enticingly, "you won’t be bored. _We_ won't be bored.”

“And you’re offering this, what, as an act of kindness?”

“No,” Sherlock grinned, “I could use an assistant.”

“Oh, I’m your assistant now?” John found himself smiling.

“You might as well be. With my intellect and your medical knowledge, London’s criminals won’t stand a chance.”

John couldn’t suppress the spike of excitement that ignited along his spine. “What kind of cases do you deal with?”

“Mainly homicides. Those are the most interesting cases, anyway. I won’t leave the house for anything less than a seven.”

“We would be dealing with homicides?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, and it occurred to John that he looked too pleased about murder. But then again, John was no better. His heart was beating quickly and it didn’t occur to him that going on a case with a man he hardly knew may have been a bad idea. Maybe Sherlock _hadn’t_ meant to offend him. After all, he didn’t come across as a master of social skills.

All at once and without really noticing, John’s anger melted away. “I’ll go.”

A smile bloomed on Sherlock’s face and clapped his hands together. “Brilliant! D.I. Lestrade texted me an hour ago. Have you heard about those serial suicides?”

“Oh, yes,” John nodded, recalling a report he saw on the news.

“There’s been a fourth.”

“A fourth?”

“Yes, keep your voice down,” Sherlock said as someone’s head whipped in their direction.

“Sorry,” John said quietly. “We’re going to the crime scene?”

Sherlock stood up. “We’re going to the crime scene.”

“Wait,” John stood, “you said the D.I. texted you an hour ago? Why didn’t we go earlier?”

“We were preoccupied with choosing our ties,” Sherlock said simply.

John huffed out a laugh and followed Sherlock out the door of the café, the tension between them erased by the coming thrill of the chase.

* * *

 

“And who’s this?” asked a man who Sherlock identified as Lestrade.

John and Sherlock were inside the house where the fourth victim was located and John could not be more excited.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, but who is he?” Lestrade insisted.

“I _said_ he’s with me,” Sherlock said firmly.

John wondered how Sherlock got away with talking to the officers like this. Just a minute ago, he made an innuendo regarding some sergeant and a bloke on forensics (though John would have to admit that it was pretty funny, it was still shocking). John went upstairs with Sherlock and Lestrade, grimacing when he saw the body of Jennifer Wilson.

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock addressed him, “would you examine the body?”

It felt strange for Sherlock to address him in that way. It was too formal. But here, they were not fiancés; they were a detective and his assistant. John didn’t know why that bothered him. “Asphyxiation, maybe,” John announced after he assessed the body, “chocked on her own vomit. Perhaps—”

“You know what it is, you’ve read the papers,” Sherlock cut him off, staring at him steadily.

“Or it’s one of the suicides,” John conceded.

When Sherlock went through his deductions for the first time, it became clear to John that he had never seen something so amazing. Sherlock was completely in his element, his words so quick that John struggled to keep up with him. His parents weren't lying when they said the Holmeses were geniuses, then.

“Brilliant,” he breathed in wonder, and he was surprised when Sherlock’s pale cheeks turned pink.

Sherlock looked at John with wonder, still slightly flushed, and the two were oblivious to Lestrade standing just a few inches beside them uncomfortably.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Sherlock, uh, Doctor Watson?”

John and Sherlock abruptly looked away from each other. Sherlock then went on about some pink suitcase with reddened cheeks, flushing deeper when John said, “Fantastic.”

* * *

“You idiot,” John hissed. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Sherlock was awfully pleased with himself, leaning on a police car casually and his eyes glistening with mirth. “But I didn’t it. I took the right pill.” *

“Not the point,” muttered John, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He figured out that Sherlock was with the murderer just a tad too late. When John burst through the doors of the adjacent building, he saw Sherlock inserting and swallowing the pill. John screamed his name, but he obviously couldn’t hear, and John’s heart started beating again when his friend didn’t collapse to the floor.

The idiot had scared him to death. “Don’t do that again, Sherlock.”

“You have no authority over me,” Sherlock snapped.

“I never said I did. You still shouldn’t do idiotic stunts like that.”

“It wasn’t a _stunt._ I was _right.”_

“But what if you took the wrong pill? Hm?”

“Then I would be dead,” Sherlock said plainly.

His tone worried John. “You sound like you don’t care.”

“What, and you would?”

“Yes! You’re my fiancé!”

For the second time that day, the people around them (though officers this time) stared at them due to John’s outburst. Lestrade chocked on his coffee in the distance, but neither noticed.

Sherlock was blinking rapidly, looking shocked. _John_ was shocked. The words had left him without thought. Sherlock being his fiancé was irrelevant, for their marriage was an arrangement and nothing more. The fact that John had to tell himself that scared him.

They must have stared at each other for a solid twenty seconds. John shook his head and lowered his voice. “Of course I would care if you died.”

Sherlock worked his jaw a few times silently before he uttered a feeble “Oh.”

Had Sherlock really thought John wouldn’t care? John’s chest tightened. He needed to change the subject before things got too serious. “You didn’t really need me,” John said. “You figured out everything yourself. I just sort of sat there.”

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be silly, John. Your assistance proved to be invaluable to me.”

“How so?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” Sherlock mused, “you actually listen to me, unlike the majority of Scotland Yard, and you’re not as idiotic as everyone else.”

“Thanks, I guess?”

Sherlock nodded as if he had greatly complimented John, but perhaps he really did in his mind. His brows furrowed. “I find it easier to think around you. I’m not sure why.”

Sherlock went off in a trance and John wasn’t sure what to say. John thought he had been pretty useless during the duration of the day, but if Sherlock thought otherwise, he wasn’t about to complain. This day had been frustrating, thrilling, terrifying.

John wanted more.

Sherlock snapped out of his trance with an intake of breath. “There’s nothing more we can do here. Jeffery Hope is dead. Case closed.”

“Will you be given credit in the press?”

“I never am, not that it matters. I’m not in it for the publicity.”

“No, I know, but it still seems a bit unfair. Your deductions were brilliant. Someone should acknowledge that.”

Sherlock ducked his head shyly (was he shy? Did Sherlock get shy?). “Don’t be stupid,” he mumbled.

John smiled and felt as if their argument in the café never happened.

Sherlock lifted his eyes and his expression softened, mirroring John’s smile. “Can I expect you to join me for the next case, whenever that may be?”

_Yes!_ “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Your parents will be cross.”

“Absolutely." 

“It could be dangerous.”

“Ah, you said the magic words.”

They stood in the midst of police cars and officers with goofy smiles on their faces. And if John felt the inexplicable need to hold Sherlock’s hand as they walked away from the crime scene, he buried it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I had Sherlock choose the correct pill because John didn't have his gun to save him, because John, not being a soldier, wouldn't have a reason for carrying a gun.  
> So, how did Sherlock know all of that about John? Well, he's Sherlock! It isn't a huge shock that Sherlock's already become obsessed with John, is it?


	4. Jitters and Alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the night before the wedding, Sherlock does NOT have premarital anxiety. Absolutely not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes an appearance. If you've read some of my other stories, then you know that I love the dynamic between Sherlock and Mycroft.  
> POV for this chapter: Sherlock  
> Enjoy!

Sherlock was lying on his bed and glaring at the ceiling, his hands folded over his stomach, the only light coming from the moon through the opened window. It was the night before his wedding and he refused to admit that he was nervous. Why would he be nervous? There was no reason to be nervous; the whole thing was an arrangement and nothing more. He may have felt a little queasy, but that could be attributed to indigestion. So, no nervousness. That would be irrational.

He needed to distract himself from his nonexistent nervousness.

He closed his eyes. The result of his first case with John was….unexpected. Sherlock rolled onto his side, curling up in a ball and ignoring his quick heartbeat. He thought he had screwed everything up in the café by accidentally insulting John (it was truly an accident—Sherlock didn’t know that he would get so angry by having his addiction exposed), but apparently not.

Sherlock replayed John’s outburst in his mind for the fourth time within the hour:

_“You sound like you don’t care.”_

_“What, and you would?”_

_“Yes! You’re my fiancé!”_

John cared about him. John referred to him as his fiancé in front of strangers and failed to tell said strangers that their engagement wasn’t by choice. It was a step in the right direction.

“Why do I care?” Sherlock growled into his pillow. “It doesn’t matter if he denies or acknowledges our circumstances. After tomorrow, we’ll be flatmates. That’s it. And, well, friends,” he admitted with slight disdain “and perhaps partners, in a sense…” Sherlock sighed into the darkness. “He’s just kind and interesting and handsome; I’ve ignored those traits in others, so why not him?”

“Fantasizing about your beloved, brother?”

Sherlock flipped onto his other side and saw Mycroft standing in the doorway. “How did I not hear you? Your weight always causes the floorboards to creak.”

“You were distracted,” Mycroft replied coolly with a slight smirk.

“Shut up and leave. Why are you even here?” Sherlock sat up and crossed his arms.

“I’m here to support you.”

“Nonsense. What support would I need?”

“Considering that you were lamenting to your pillow about John Watson, I’d say a lot.” When Sherlock said nothing, Mycroft went on, “And, let us not forget that you asked me to dig into his past. I’m surprised you didn’t deduce it all yourself.”

“I did,” Sherlock said. “I just wanted confirmation.”

“Hm, sure. Why did you want to know all that, anyway?”

“None of your business.”

“Did it have nothing to do with your latest case?”

“Go away,” Sherlock’s lip twitched.

“You could have gotten other assistants—that pathologist is fond of you, isn’t she?—and yet you chose him.”

“Whatever you’re thinking is absurd. John is my friend and nothing more.”

Mycroft gave him a patronizing stare.

“Tomorrow will mean nothing,” Sherlock muttered and flopped down on his side again to face the wall. “Leave.”

“Now, Sherlock—”

“Leave, Mycroft. Your presence is unwelcome and unnecessary.” He stared at his wall and waited for the sound of footsteps. After ten seconds, Mycroft left the room and shut the door behind him. Sherlock bounced off his bed and began to pace the short distance of his bedroom, “Stupid Mycroft, thinking he knows everything about my mind and feelings. What does he know? Nothing! He needs to learn to keep his big nose out of things.”

Sherlock’s quick pacing made his mother knock on his door, “Stop all the racket, Sherlock!”

“No!”

“Don’t make me come in there.”

Sherlock stopped pacing.

“Good boy.” Sherlock heard her walk away.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, feeling on edge. It was only 9:30. He couldn’t spend the night in his room or else he’d go insane. He grabbed his phone from his bedside table and texted John (Mycroft gave him John’s number, but that was irrelevant because Mycroft was irrelevant).

_John. SH_

_John. SH_

_JOHN. SH_

**Sherlock?**

_Yes, John. SH_

**How did u get my number?**

_Not important. I’m bored. SH_

**Good 4 u.**

_John, can you not type like you’re seven? SH_

**Sorry, Im a bit drunk. Btw, u don’t have 2 keep signing ur texts. I kno its u**

_I want to sign them. Why are you drunk? SH_

**Stag night. heard of it?**

_I’m aware of the concept. Did you attend strip clubs? SH_

**Yea. My friends insisted. Kind of weird telling u this. Since. U know.**

_What? It’s not like you’re cheating. SH_

It sounded nonchalant, but Sherlock was disgusted by the knowledge that John probably had some random woman touching him. But there was no time to examine that now.

_Ugh, your typing is atrocious. I’m calling you. SH_

**Sherlock no Im still out!**

Sherlock called John immediately. He couldn’t bear to read John’s drunken texts any longer. It was mind-numbing. Besides, he wanted to distract himself from the thought of John at strip clubs and his nonexistent nerves.

John picked up on the fifth ring. “Sherlock?” There was a lot of background noise, mainly loud music and laughter.

“Obviously.”

“Jeez, what’d you want?”

“I told you, I’m bored. I can hardly imagine you enjoying the night, either.”

“Shit, ‘course you’d know that,” John slurred. “I dunno why I’m not enjoying this. Supposed to be fun.”

“Is it boring?”

“Kind of. Alcohol helps, though all my friends are too drunk to speak.”

“Lovely.” Something about hearing John’s voice made Sherlock feel better, but he wanted to see John. Being with John while he was intoxicated would be an interesting experience. There would be a lot of data to collect. “I’m bored. You’re bored. Let’s do something about it.”

“Crime scene?” John asked hopefully.

“I wish,” Sherlock sighed. “No.”

“Then what?” John then giggled, “A romantic walk in the park?”

Sherlock considered this. “Why not?”

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” he teased.

“You’re the bride?” Sherlock smirked.

“Huh? No! No, that’s not what I meant! Stop laughing!”

Sherlock’s laughter died down to a couple chuckles. “Our boredom is still unsolved. Why not take a romantic walk in the park, _my bride to be?”_

“Oh, hat sounds lovely, _sweetheart.”_ John started giggling again.

_He must be truly inebriated._ “I’ll pick you up from your current location.”

“How ya know where I am?”

“Criterion, correct?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Mike Stamford mentioned it yesterday.”

“Ah. Gotcha. Well, don’t keep me waiting long, _dearest.”_

“I wouldn’t dare, _angel.”_

They both laughed before hanging up, Sherlock chuckling richly and John giggling hysterically. Sherlock wondered if flirting was similar to that whole exchange. Shaking off the thought, he grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

* * *

Getting John out of the bar was too easy. John was right; his friends were completely smashed. They didn’t notice Sherlock at all, and he preferred it that way. They seemed like imbeciles.

John was humming happily as he walked next to Sherlock. “The stars are pretty tonight,” he looked up at the sky.

Sherlock found drunken John highly amusing. He looked up. “I suppose.” He was indifferent to stars, but he would humor John. “How are you this drunk already? It’s only 10:00.”

“Oi, you look like a lightweight yourself, so shush,” John elbowed Sherlock in the stomach.

Sherlock smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink often.”

“Hmmm, not surprising.” John looked around. “Oh, we’re here.”

“Yes, we’ve been at the park for two minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Do keep up.” True to his word, Sherlock brought John for a walk through the park, though he doubted it could be considered romantic. The park was mainly empty, leaving room for John to stumble around without disturbing anyone.

“So, there were strippers.” Sherlock didn’t know why that bothered him or why he brought it up. The thought of some woman touching John….Possessiveness rose in Sherlock’s chest.

“What? Oh, yeah. Yes, there were.”

“Why? I don’t see the appeal in having a stranger rub against you.”

“Ah, well, it’s my last night as a free man,” John winked.

“Yes, and you’re spending it with me,” he pointed out.

“Yep,” John said simply, nearly tripping.

Sherlock grabbed his forearm. “Careful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John batted Sherlock’s hand away. “I’m fine, jus’ tired,” he leaned against a nearby tree.

“You’re spoiling the mood,” Sherlock frowned. He wanted John to pay attention to him.

John laughed, “Ooo, I forgot this is our romantic walk. Will you kiss me under moonlight?”

Sherlock snorted, but it died in his throat when he saw a sparkle in John’s eyes that could not be attributed to alcohol. Sherlock prayed the light from the streetlamps revealed the pink that was surely staining his cheeks. John was disheveled, his hair messy, face flushed with a cocky grin, and his jumper riding up his stomach on one side. It was endearing and…attractive.

John crossed his arms and leaned his head back against the tree. “John,” Sherlock pouted, “don’t fall asleep, how will you entertain me then?”

John laughed and sat down against the tree on the cool grass against and patted a spot next to him clumsily. “C’mere, then.” John seemed much more open now. Sherlock decided that he liked it, though it worried him some. The uneasy feeling in his stomach was returning.

He sat down next to John awkwardly, drawing his knees up to his chest.

“Relax, will ya?” John clapped him on the shoulder. “You look like you’re bein’ tortured.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Nah. I’m way too charming.”

They chuckled quietly and settled into silence. John’s body was warm against Sherlock’s side in the coolness of the autumn night, and Sherlock felt the desire to get closer to him, but he refrained. At this proximity, Sherlock could smell John's cologne mixed with alcohol. It was unexpectedly enticing. What the hell was happening to him? _  
_

Sherlock had been too busy looking down at his hands to notice John staring at him with an oddly wistful expression. “What?”

“Mm, nothin’. Just…last month, I was dreading this whole thing. But—god I’m drunk—it’s not so bad. You. You’re not bad. I’d still rather not do this, but not ‘cause I don’t like _you.”_

Sherlock’s lungs stopped working. When his chest started to burn from lack of air, he inhaled sharply and then cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I have similar sentiment.”

It came out too brisk, too sharp, but John smiled widely anyway. “Good! Glad you know that. I’m not good at this kind of stuff when I’m sober.”

_Clearly._ “Hm.”

John rested his head against the tree trunk and stared ahead. “Can’t believe it’s tomorrow.” Sherlock wasn’t good at this and he lacked the liquid courage John had. Fortunately, John went on without waiting for a response, “I know it won’t change much and all ‘cause you said I can date people, which is nice of you, by the way, but it’s still kinda big. Marriage always changes things.”

“It’s just a legal document,” Sherlock huffed. He never thought marriage was a big deal, hence his initial indifference to the engagement.

But would marrying _John_ change things?

“Mmm, no, it changes things,” John replied. “Not all things. But some things.” He yawned. “Big things. Small things. Never thought I’d get married this young, either.”

“Neither did I,” Sherlock agreed.

“You know,” John said in a much lighter tone, “my sister said she got me lube n’ condoms as a wedding gift. She thought it was funny. I guess I could use them at some point.”

They both tensed.

“Oh god, not on you!” John exclaimed. “I meant with someone else! At some point. With, you know, another person. This is why I don’t drink much, I’m rambling. I can tell I’m rambling but I can’t stop. Why’d I even think it was a good idea to tell you that? Shut me up, Sherlock.”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock said with a hint of panic.

“Thanks, mate.”

The term felt wrong and the men frowned. Sherlock went through all the elements on the periodic table in his head not to think about John using lube and condoms on him.

John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder. “Ya never told me; are we gettin’ rings?”

“Oh, yes.” Change of subject, good. He can deal with this. “Mummy and Daddy insisted. They’re silver, I think. I haven’t seen them.” He paused. “You don’t have to wear it,” he added as an afterthought.

“Neither do you,” John said, “especially in your line of work.”

“Yours, too. You’re part of the Work now, John.”

John nodded happily. “I know. That should be our honeymoon: a case.”

“I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” Sherlock said dreamily, earning another giggle from John. Sherlock was eager for another case with John. He wanted to show off in front of him again and receive John’s praise. It was a slightly selfish desire, but Sherlock never considered himself a selfless person. But more so than that, Sherlock just wanted to spend more time with John. His few amicable times with John had been the happiest in his memory. He wondered how he and John would get along once they moved to Baker Street.

Sherlock had a small smile on his face, thinking about a future filled with cases and John, and felt at ease. John had been silent for a few minutes, so Sherlock looked over at him to see that he had fallen into a drunken sleep. “John,” he said quietly. “Get up. A tree isn’t a suitable bed.”

John grunted and didn’t open his eyes. “Don’t care. I’m sleeping here.”

Sherlock fought a smile and stood up. “Open your eyes, John.”

“Piss off,” he mumbled into the lapels of his jacket. John looked tiny curled under the tree, like some woodland creature. Sherlock never thought he would use “cute” to describe John Watson, but there he was. Sherlock leaned down and extended his hand. “I don’t want you looking groggy for pictures tomorrow; you’ll make me look bad. Actually, no, I’ll look better compared to you. Never mind, then.”

“You prick,” John smiled faintly and opened his eyes. He accepted Sherlock’s hand and stood.

When he tried to walk, he tripped on his own two feet and fell forward. John’s arms spun around wildly and he fell right into Sherlock’s chest. It happened so quickly that it took Sherlock a moment to realize his arms were around John’s back, supporting him. He didn’t remember doing it. His reflexes must have kicked in. John must not have noticed right away either, for he stared up at Sherlock with a dazed expression, mouth slightly ajar.

After a beat, John’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit!” he stumbled out of Sherlock’s arms. “Sorry. Fuck. I need a bed.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It’s quite all right,” he said. “Typical reaction to,” he gestured with his hands, “the alcohol.”

“Yeah. Thanks, for, you know, the catching of me.”

“No problem.” John had fit nicely in his arms. _Stop it, Sherlock!_ “We should get a cab.”

“Mmm, yeah. Gotta rest for the big day,” John said lightly, but it was forced.

They made their way toward the street in silence and it took Sherlock forty seconds to hail a cab. “There you are, John.”

“You sure? I can hail one for me.”

“No, you go ahead.”

“’Kay, thank you.” John got in the cab. Before he shut the door, he said, “Sherlock? Remind me to drink again not ever.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “Will do, John.” Sherlock watched the cab drive off, his heart pounding. He put his hand over his chest curiously, feeling the steady beat through the fabric of his shirt and coat.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

Will you admit to your premarital jitters? MH 

_Piss. Off. SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding is next chapter! I'm excited. I don't know what will happen because I haven't written it yet, but I'm still pumped!


	5. Wedding Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day they had been dreading--the wedding--finally arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I enjoy writing this.  
> You know what I enjoy even more? Your lovely kudos and comments (I'm not even being a kiss-ass here; it's true!).  
> By the way, I have to write a research paper that's required for graduation, and we were able to pick the topic. Guess what: I'm doing slash fan fiction! I can't believe my teacher approved of the topic.  
> Just thought I'd share that with you.

An immense pounding in his skull was the first thing John registered. He groaned. It was too bright. He blindly grabbed for the duvet and pulled it back over his head. Then the duvet was gone.

“John, get up!”

John opened his eyes and saw his mother standing by his bed, frowning with her arms crossed. “I knew you shouldn’t have gone with them. I never liked that crowd.”

Oh, that’s right. He drank last night. That explained a lot. He drank with Mike and the rest of that lot. They laughed about what John’s honeymoon would be like with Sherlock. Mike joked that it would involve necrophilia. John grimaced.

Something else happened…Sherlock! Sherlock happened. They went to the park and… _I fell into him like an idiot._ John groaned again. He remembered that Sherlock’s coat felt warm. God, did he flirt last night? He felt like he did. If Sherlock asked about it (and John hoped to God that he wouldn’t), he could blame it on the alcohol. There. Problem solved.

“John, are you listening?”

“No,” John replied and slowly sat up, mindful of his headache.

Mrs. Watson glared. “You need to get dressed.”

“For what?” he rubbed his eyes.

“For the wedding!”

“Oh. Oh!” John nearly fell over when he jumped from the bed. “Yeah, right, got it.”

“We’re leaving in forty minutes. Be ready,” she said sternly.

“I know,” John said irritably. He had little tolerance for his mother during the best of times, and right now the hangover was not helping. When John’s mother left the room, his stomach turned unpleasantly in a way that had nothing to do with his late night drinking. He avoided his reflection while brushing his teeth and took a couple painkillers from his medicine cabinet. He wanted to get through this day in the least pain possible in every sense.

John opened his closet to retrieve the suit and tie he picked out with Sherlock. John sighed and began to remove the clothes he failed to take off last night. His mind flashed to how Sherlock looked in his suit trousers. John rested his head against the closet door. “Stop. It,” he muttered to himself. His heart was beating wildly. He needed to calm down. His fingers fumbled when he fixed his tie. Once dressed, he looked around his room one last time.

Tonight, after the wedding, he and Sherlock were to move into Baker Street. John reflected that he should have been sad to leave his family home. He wasn’t. John came out from his room fifteen minutes later. His parents smiled when they saw him.

“You look handsome,” Mr. Watson said.

John said nothing.

Harry, donning a light blue dress, grumbled, “Neither of us is fit for formal wear, eh Johnny?”

“Nope,” John agreed.

She smirked, “You gonna use my wedding gift tonight?”

“Ha ha,” John rolled his eyes. “Let’s just go.”

* * *

 

The ceremony and reception was arranged at some fancy hall John couldn’t remember the name of, with the guest list exceeding one hundred in order for his parents to make a social statement. They arrived at the hall thirty-six minutes before the ceremony and John was bored already. His parents started conversing with some relatives John didn’t know and Harry went straight to the bar. Of course.

John walked around the hall, and he had to admit that it was very attractive. There were golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but all light was coming in from the opened windows. The tablecloths and chairs were the usual white accompanied with weddings, but bright red bouquets of roses served as the centerpieces of each table. It was a nice contrast and matched well with the red drapes adorning the front of the room where John was to be married in thirty minutes. They were to stand under an arch made out red balloons.

Charming.

More of John’s family (who hadn't spoken to him in years) and his parents’ friends were arriving. Some of them came up to John and said things like, “So, it’s the big day!” or “Well, here we are!” After the sixth person came up to him, John stopped faking a smile. If his headache weren’t so persistent, he would consider joining Harry at the bar.

John’s eyes landed on Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and he wondered where the rest of Sherlock's family was. More importantly: where was Sherlock?

“He’s sulking.”

John spun around to find Mycroft standing behind him. “Mycroft, hello to you, too. Sherlock’s sulking?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t ask how you know that I was wondering where he was.”

Mycroft almost smiled at that. “He had to turn down a case because of today.” John’s shoulders slumped and Mycroft caught it. “Yes, that’s disappointing for you, as well, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb John, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Um, okay. Was that a compliment?”

“I know you went on a case with him. I’m glad. Someone needs to watch over him.”

John nodded. “Right. Okay, well, I’ll do that.”

Mycroft looked him up and down. “Be careful with him.” And with that, he walked away.

John was left standing in the middle of the hall, confused and annoyed. He shook himself out of it. “Damn Holmeses,” he muttered. Seven minutes before the ceremony, Sherlock entered the hall.

John swallowed.

Sherlock looked even better in the suit today than he had two weeks ago, if that were possible. Sherlock’s irritated expression somehow made him more enticing. _Stop. It._

Sherlock noticed him and his irritation noticeably dissipated. He walked over to John with his hands folded behind his back. “Mycroft annoyed you, I see.”

“Yeah,” John didn’t bother denying it. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t important.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, but dropped it. He looked down at his feet and rocked on his heels once, “You look nice.”

John looked away from Sherlock in favor of staring at the wall behind him, his heart fluttering. “Thanks,” he cleared his throat. “You, too.”

“What would happen if we were not to go through with it? If instead of ‘I do’ one of us says ‘I don’t’?”

John quickly looked back at Sherlock, but found his eyes playful. John grinned and felt a weight lift off his shoulders. “My parents would have heart attacks. They would be publically humiliated. Sounds tempting, actually.”

“Mummy would beat me,” Sherlock smiled a little, “and Daddy would…well, I honestly think he’d be indifferent.”

“I think my father would just disown me. Again: tempting. This might be the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“Are you actually considering it?” Sherlock’s smile faded and his eyes scanned John’s face rapidly.

_Oh god, he’s deducing me. He thinks I’m serious._ “No, no,” John shook his head. “No, I don’t….no.”

Sherlock let out a small breath, “Oh, good.” He looked anywhere but at John.

The air was heavy between them, the guests forgotten, and a tingling feeling tickling John’s chest. When Sherlock did look back at John after a long beat, his expression softened. John found himself taking a step closer to him, feeling the heat of Sherlock’s body. A brown curl was hanging down near Sherlock’s eyebrow, the only one out of place. John reached up to brush the curl back from his forehead, and Sherlock shut his eyes to let him. John brushed the curl away from his forehead gently, resisting the urge to move his hand through the rest of the thick curls. His hand lingered on his forehead and he saw Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob, and John wanted to attach his lips to it.

“It was out of place,” John explained in a murmur.

Sherlock hummed low in his throat, eyes opening slowly and filled with warmth. “Thank you,” he said softly.

John’s chest swelled with an unfamiliar, overwhelming feeling, and he almost gasped.

“Sherlock! John!”

The tension shattered around them and was replaced by Mrs. Holmes’ smile. “Stand together, I want to take a picture!”

John was incapable of speaking, his pulse far higher than it should have been.

Sherlock spoke, “You’ll get pictures all during the reception. If you start taking pictures now, other will want to join, but it’s only,” he quickly pulled out his phone and checked the time, “three minutes until start time.”

“You’re right,” Mrs. Holmes conceded. “But I am getting photos, young man.”

“Yes, yes, go away.”

“Do you have the rings?”

“Yes,” Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. “Both are in here.”

“Good. Give yours to John so he can give it to you.”

“Fine, go away.”

Mrs. Holmes looked amused and walked away.

When John’s eyes locked with Sherlock’s again, they averted their gazes. Sherlock opened the box and took out a ring. “They’re identical. Bit too much for my taste, but I expected no less.”

The band was silver with three small diamonds in the center. “It’s gorgeous,” John said and took the ring.

Sherlock shrugged. “I assume you know how this works, yes? Put the ring on my finger after you say ‘I do.’”

“Yeah, not exactly rocket science.”

“The minister is here!” someone yelled, and the rest of the guests talked excitedly.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” John said, his stomach knotted like fists.

* * *

 

They stood facing each other under the arch made out of balloons at the front of the room, hands folded in front of them uncomfortably, acutely aware of the eyes watching them. John felt a twitch in his left hand, and he squeezed his hands together tighter around the ring. John was more or less ignoring what the minister was saying, his focus on Sherlock instead. Sherlock was looking down at the ground, his eyes flicking back up to John’s every so often. John was puzzled by Sherlock’s anxiety. Didn’t this whole thing mean nothing to him? Why had he been worried that John wouldn’t want to marry him? John wanted to ask him what was wrong, but obviously couldn’t.

“John Watson—”

John was thrown back to his surroundings at the sound of his name.

“—do you take Sherlock Holmes to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Sherlock’s pale eyes looked up at John and he bit his lower lip.

The strange feeling flooded John's chest again. “I do,” he said quickly.

Sherlock held out his left hand for the ring. His hand was shaking lightly, but John would politely fail to bring that up later. He pushed the ring on Sherlock’s long finger ( _god,_ they were long) and he saw the flash of a camera out of the corner of his eye.

The minister smiled. “Sherlock Holmes, do you take John Watson—”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock snapped, “that’s the entire reason why we’re here. John, hold out your hand.”

John couldn’t help it; he burst into laughter. He held out his left hand and covered his mouth with his right. The majority of the guests looked slightly horrified at the display, except for Sherlock’s parents, who were smiling proudly. Sherlock’s lips twitched into a smile and he pushed the ring onto John’s finger.

“I now pronounce you married,” the disgruntled minister said. “You may kiss.”

_Fuck._ He’d completely forgotten about the kiss!

Cameras flashed and people clapped around them as they stared at each other with dread. They had to do this. Everyone was expecting it. They had to kiss. That’s what people do. John gave a curt nod to Sherlock and stood on his toes, planting a short but firm kiss on his pink lips. It was too short to fairly be called a kiss, it lasted three seconds at the most, but John felt the tips of his ear redden. John pulled away and saw that Sherlock looked ruffled, his eyes widened and lips parted. John wanted to kiss the look off his face.

“It’s all right,” John murmured to him. “Come on.”

They walked out from under the arch, but it all looked wrong; a real couple would still be kissing, or at least walk off holding hands. But their hands were firmly by their sides and John wanted to hide. Too many cameras from too many people he didn’t know.

“Just smile for the pictures,” Sherlock said, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Smile for the pictures and then they’ll all forget about us because this isn’t our day: it’s theirs.”

He was right. After they posed for pictures and the food was brought out, the grooms were forgotten. John and Sherlock escaped from the room and went outside the building, sitting down on a bench. It was nighttime now, the only light coming from streetlamps.

John sighed heavily. “Well.”

“Well,” Sherlock repeated.

“That happened.”

“Mmm.”

“It was awful.”

“It truly was.”

“When can we leave?”

“You want to leave?”

“You think I want to stay?”

“No,” Sherlock grinned. “We can leave. Our possessions should be at the flat by now.”

“Thank god,” John stood from the bench. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock hailed a cab and they left the reception forty-five minutes after it began.

* * *

 

“Oh, how handsome you two look!” Mrs. Hudson cooed when she saw them.

John smiled politely, but Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, whatever, let us into our flat now.”

“Sherlock, be nice,” John scolded.

Mrs. Hudson was unfazed and let them into 221B, giving each of them a key. “Enjoy your night, dears!”

John didn’t bother to correct her and neither did Sherlock.

They entered the flat and turned on the lights. Boxes that John didn’t recognize littered the tables. They must have been Sherlock’s. John didn’t have many possessions, far less than Sherlock, and his boxes were by the stairs to his room. He would take care of that tomorrow.

The day had been worse than he’d anticipated and Sherlock’s strange anxiety didn’t help. Speaking of which… “Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to him. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Sherlock scowled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You just seemed…off, a bit.”

“Well, I’m fine,” he muttered and took a skull from one of his boxes and put it on the mantel.

John wouldn’t even question the skull. “If you say so,” he sighed.

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him anymore, now focused on pretending to look through boxes. John could take a hint. He walked past Sherlock without another word. He took a box containing his pyjamas and went upstairs.

John’s room had a double bed pushed up against the wall and a small bedside table with a lamp on top. It was bare, but he didn’t mind. After he changed into his pyjamas, John looked down at his wedding ring. As he heard his husband move around downstairs, John took off the ring and put it in the drawer of the bedside table, ignoring the sting in his eyes and wondering if it would ever see the light of day. The overwhelming feeling flooded his chest again, but it finally dawned on him.

“Oh god,” he whispered to himself shakily. “I think I’m in love with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think they would get together in this chapter? Yeah, well, no. Not yet. I love writing tension.


	6. Flirting and Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To ease his boredom, Sherlock reluctantly agrees to go out to dinner with John. Then John starts flirting with their waitress.  
> Sherlock doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos! You make me a very happy camper.  
> Not much to say here other than that I like writing tension. Don't worry, I won't keep our boys apart for too much longer.

The first month of living with John had been… interesting, to say the least. Sherlock found living away from his parents exhilarating, being able to perform experiments as he pleased and hang his collection of bullets on the wall (Mummy had a fit when he tried to hang it on his bedroom wall). It was much quieter in the flat than his family home, allowing him to think without disruption. John really wasn’t a bother. In fact, Sherlock would go as far to say that John’s presence was rather pleasant. They greeted each other in the morning and talked about whatever experiment Sherlock was working on. John seemed to understand that Sherlock wasn’t always up for conversation and would leave him be. That was considerate of him.

So yes, they got along all right, but that was exactly the problem. Sherlock was starting to like John _too_ much. It really wasn’t Sherlock’s fault; John was making it increasingly difficult not to be fond of him. In the mornings, John would come downstairs all sleep-ruffled and grumpy. It was a look that made Sherlock smile.

“What?’ John would ask gruffly.

“Nothing,” Sherlock would say and then be angry with himself for being affected by John’s….John-ness.

However, Sherlock noticed that there was something strained about John’s demeanor, something beneath the surface which he couldn’t quite figure out. He would talk and laugh with Sherlock, of course, but when he thought Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, John looked troubled. Whenever this would happen and Sherlock would then noticeably give John his attention, the look on his face would instantly vanish.

It was worrisome.

“You all right?”

Sherlock looked at John, who was sitting across from him in his armchair. “John, how long have you been sitting there?”

“Around fifteen minutes,” John said. “What are you thinking about? You looked…worried, or something.”

“Lack of cases,” he muttered, which wasn’t a total lie.

Wait.

Oh.

That must have been it! John was bored! There had been no cases since the incident with the cabbie. Yes. That was it. John was about to burst with boredom. It was wonderfully convenient; Sherlock had been bored out of his mind for the past six days. It was a wonder he didn’t take up cocaine again. Sherlock smiled, satisfied with himself.

“What are you happy about?” John asked from behind his newspaper.

“I need to text Lestrade,” he pulled out his phone.

_Anything? SH_

Lestrade replied three minutes later. **_No, Sherlock. I would have told you if I had something. GL_**

_You have nothing at all? SH_

_**That’s what I’m telling you.** _

Sherlock growled and threw his phone across the room. Stupid Lestrade. His and John’s sanity were at stake!

“Nothing?” John hid his smirk behind the paper.

Sherlock grunted. Sherlock was beyond annoyed and was starting to feel more restless by the second. Thinking about John’s problem had been a good distraction, but now it was gone. His fingers tapped rapidly to an imaginary rhythm and he started to shift his feet around on the floor. He couldn’t spend another day in this flat. He couldn’t continue staring at the wall.

“You look like a caged animal,” John commented. “Calm down, Sherlock. A case will come soon.”

“I need one _now.”_ Sherlock jumped from his chair and picked up his skull from the mantle, revealing an unopened pack of cigarettes.

John’s eyebrows raised by a fraction. “You smoke?”

“Only when I’m bored,” Sherlock ripped the plastic off the pack with his teeth. He hadn’t smoked since before his and John’s engagement, but now the noise was getting unbearable. He put one in his mouth. Sherlock was trying to remember where he put his lighter when John nonchalantly got up and plucked the cigarette from his lips.

“No,” John said simply.

Sherlock glared at him and took another cigarette from the pack.

John took the cigarette from between his fingers. “No.”

Sherlock glared and defiantly grabbed another one from the box.

John sighed and ripped the box from his hand. “Your lungs shouldn’t suffer for your boredom.”

“They’re suffering for the greater good,” Sherlock put the cigarette in his mouth. “It’s all transport.”

“What is, your body?”

“Mhm,” he hummed. Sherlock caught John’s hand when he tried to remove the cigarette from his mouth a second time.

“Sherlock, I’m not letting you smoke, especially not in our flat.”

“I’ll go outside.”

“Not the point.”

“When you suggest something interesting for me to do, I won’t smoke.”

John glared at him. “God, you’re a child. We need to get you out of the house. It’s around dinner time, isn’t it? Do you know a place we could go?”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

John smiled brightly. “I don’t fucking care.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched around the cigarette.

John snorted. “You look ridiculous, you know that?”

Sherlock spit out the cigarette and it landed on the floor.

“I’m not picking that up,” John said.

“Neither am I,” Sherlock sniffed.

To Sherlock’s irritation, John started laughing. “Come on, you grouch. Let’s go somewhere before you go crazy.”

“Too late,” Sherlock muttered.

* * *

 

The evening did not go according to plan. Sherlock came back to the flat in an even worse mood than when he left with John. Even worse: John was angry with him.

They went out to eat and everything had gone well at first. Sherlock felt himself lightening up a little, he was making John laugh, John was making him laugh, and he was warming up to the idea of actually eating something. There was a burning candle between them (there was one on every table) and the glow of the flame shone in John’s dark, blue eyes. Sherlock found himself leaning closer to John, feeling refreshingly warm and content.

But then, John had to ruin it all by flirting with their waitress.

She was a relatively pretty girl, Sherlock admitted to himself. She was on the taller side with brown hair up in a bun and dark brown eyes. Her appearance made her no less intolerable. In fact, her appeal made her more intolerable. And she was actually flirting back. John and the waitress (what was her name? irrelevant) were giggling at something stupid and Sherlock snapped his head away from them to determinedly stare out the window. He couldn’t watch. It was disgusting. He felt something hot and primitive coil in the pit of his stomach, and his blood was burning in his veins.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sherlock heard her say, “I didn’t know that I was interrupting your date.”

“What? Oh, no, no,” John laughed. “He’s not my date.”

Sherlock turned his head back to the pair and looked at the waitress intensely, so much so that she fiddled with her apron uncomfortably. “I’m not his date,” Sherlock agreed, “I’m his husband.”

John and the waitress’ faces dropped simultaneously.

“O-oh,” she blushed, “I’m so sorry, sir! I didn’t…” She struggled to find words, but her mouth snapped shut and she scurried away.

Sherlock did his best to suppress his smirk. “She didn’t even take our order.”

Silence, save for the sound of the other patrons.

When Sherlock looked back at John, he saw anger morphing his features.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

John’s shoulders moved with his deep breaths and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock,” he said slowly, “would you mind telling me what the hell that was all about?”

“What do you mean? I only spoke the truth.”

John stared at him incredulously. “You do know that I was trying to hit it off with her, yeah?”

“Yes?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Don’t remind me._

“Then why, for Christ’s sake, would you mention that we’re married?”

“She thought I was your date. I corrected her.” 

John blinked a few times, and then shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.” He stood, put money down onto the table, and left the restaurant without another word.

Sherlock stared after him stupidly before his brain jumped into action. “John!” he ran out of the restaurant after him. He saw John getting into a cab. “John—”

“Shut up,” John held up his hand. “Just get in and shut up. I’m not arguing with you in a cab.”

They arrived back at the flat in foul moods and bubbling anger. John slammed the door shut to 221B. “Sherlock, I’m going to ask you again: what the hell was that about? Surely, in that big brain of yours, you know how flirting works.”

“Of course I do,” he scowled. “It’s quite simple, really.”

“Hm, yeah, sure, because you seem like an expert in that field.”

It was a low blow and it made Sherlock’s jaw clench. “Why are you so angry about this? There are other women out there,” he said bitterly.

“Why did you feel the need to ruin it?” John conveniently ignored the first question. “Sherlock, you said I could date whoever I want, so I’m going to date.”

John was right; Sherlock _had_ granted him permission to be with other people. He established that on the day they met. But that was before he got to know John, become accustomed to his friendship and attention. They’d only been friends for around two months, but Sherlock was coming to depend on him. The thought was terrifying. It went against everything he stood for. He knew emotions were nothing but trouble.

When John had made his vow, Sherlock actually felt happy, for heaven knows why. He had to hide it, of course, because he knew that John would be suspicious if he let himself grin from ear to ear like he wanted to. But then, oh god, but then John kissed him (how could he have forgotten about the kiss? Stupid, stupid!). John’s lips had touched his for maybe four seconds at maximum, but it left Sherlock’s heart pounding.

“Sherlock? Do you understand?”

Ah. Sherlock must have been thinking for longer than he thought. “Yes, John,” he said quietly. “I apologize. I was in a bad mood from earlier and took it out on you. It was wrong.” He didn’t believe he was wrong at all, actually, because John was his husband and he merely told the truth (and if there was a smidgeon of malicious intent behind his words, well, then that was just a coincidence), but he needed John not to be angry with him.

John looked astonished. “Oh, well,” he cleared his throat. “That’s…nice of you to apologize, Sherlock. Thank you. Look, just, don’t do it again and it will all be fine.”

Sherlock nodded.

John grinned. “We never did eat. Chinese food sound good?”

“I’m not hungry.” Sherlock felt the beginning rumbles of hunger and he willed his stomach not to growl.

“I’m ordering you a few egg-rolls anyway. You’ll be hungry eventually.”

Sherlock was half-listening, instead thinking about John going out on dates. The hot feeling coiled in his stomach again. He inhaled sharply. _Jealousy. That’s what I’m feeling: jealousy._

Sherlock gasped and John raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock walked past him towards his room. “Fine, just need to think.” He went into his room and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock flopped down onto his bed and groaned. Stupid Lestrade. If he had just given him a case, this whole mess of an evening wouldn’t have happened! He and John would have gone out, chased criminals, and John would marvel at his deductions. It would have been perfect. He sighed heavily, face down on his pillow. After a moment he needed to turn his head to the side to breathe, now facing his bedside table.

He reached out his arm and opened the drawer to the table, his fingers feeling around inside for his ring.

On the night of the wedding when Sherlock was changing out of his tux, the shine from the silver band on his finger caught his eye. He held his hand closer to his face, examining the ring’s luster and how it looked on his finger, and he ignored the numbness in his chest. Slowly and with reluctance he didn’t comprehend, he pulled off the ring and put it in the drawer next to his bedside table.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Now, he took the ring from the drawer and sat up. He closed his hand tightly around the cool metal. He wondered if anyone would flirt with John if they wore the rings. He couldn’t ask John to wear his. They weren’t like that. Sherlock brought his hand containing the ring up against his lips subconsciously, his eyes closing. Then, he came to his senses and his eyes shot open, dropping the ring with a soft patter on the duvet. Sherlock swallowed. He was never one to deny evidence that was right in front of him. He had to confront it. He had to admit it to himself. The warmth he felt when John was close to him or when he would smile, the frequency in which he stared at John when he wasn’t looking, the jealousy he felt that evening, it all lead to one horrifying conclusion.

_I’m experiencing romantic and sexual feelings for John._

He didn’t say it out loud because there was no point. He mentally acknowledged his feelings and that was enough. Out of all the possible outcomes of this marriage, Sherlock never thought he would actually fall in love with his husband. _No, not love. Not yet. Is this love? Is love this abhorrent?_  

Sherlock stared at the ring on his bed. He then got up and walked to his closet. From a box, he pulled out an old necklace some distant relative gave him for his birthday one year. He never wore it because he didn’t wear jewelry or care about who gave it to him. He only kept it because he sometimes toyed with the idea of selling it. He took the necklace, removed the pendant, and put it back in the box. He took the bare chain and walked back over to his bed. Sherlock put the ring around the silver chain and closed the clasp. He put the ring and chain around his neck and hid it under his shirt.

What John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, both of the idiots have accepted their feelings. What will happen next? I actually don't know because I haven't written it yet.


	7. Tension and Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this chapter out sooner, but my teachers decided to assign as much homework as possible this past week. Ugh. I apologize. I'm not very satisfied with this chapter either, but oh well.  
> Thank you all for the kudos and comments! You give me life

John was walking up the steps to his flat, bags of groceries in his hands, when he heard voices coming from the other side of the door. He recognized one of the voices to be Sherlock’s, but couldn’t place the other. He strained his ears. The voice was higher than Sherlock’s, cooler. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

John jumped when Sherlock said, “Come in, John.”

John opened the door and saw Sherlock lying vertically on the couch, his head hanging off the side and his curls falling to the floor, face flushed, and Mycroft standing over him.

Oh. Mycroft. That explained a lot.

“Hello,” John said to the brothers and put the groceries on the kitchen table.

“John, you look well,” Mycroft greeted. “How’s the new job at the clinic? Rather boring, isn’t it?”

“How…never mind.”

John had taken a job at the clinic, but that was only yesterday. He didn’t want to know how Mycroft found out (he knew Sherlock didn’t tell him; Sherlock didn’t tell him anything).

“It's nice. I like helping people,” John said, which was true, and the reason why he took the job when he had enough money for a lifetime.

“Of course,” Mycroft said with that same cool smile.

John chose to ignore him. “Sherlock, don’t sit like that,” he scolded, “all the blood will go to your head.”

“That’s the point,” he muttered. “I’m hoping to pass out so I won’t have to hear him.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Mycroft said.

“Your existence is ridiculous.” 

“Would you talk some sense into him?” he sighed.

“Sherlock, sit up,” John took off his jacket. He was tired and not exactly up for hearing Sherlock and his weird brother bicker.

“No.”

“Oh, you’re in a great mood, aren’t you?”

“It’s his fault.”

“Don’t care. Sit up,” he said sternly.

Sherlock sat up with an immense sigh, swaying slightly with a wave of dizziness and putting his fingers to his temples.

John snickered. “That’s what you get, you child.”

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft smiled.

“Right. Yeah, don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you here?” He saw Sherlock smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“I was just dropping off some photos from the wedding,” he gestured to a folder that was on the coffee table. “Mummy was very pleased with the results. She has a few framed around the house.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’ve done your job, the photos are here, now leave.”

“Fine,” Mycroft sighed. “Farewell, John.”

“Yeah, see you later.”

After Mycroft left, John walked over to the folder and picked it up out of pure curiosity.

“You’re actually going to look at them?” Sherlock asked.

“Why not? It’s not like I’m going to put one in my wallet or anything.”

Sherlock snorted and got off the sofa to stand beside John.

John opened the folder. The photos on top were of them posing with family members.

“Wow, you can really see our pain here,” John said, looking over the pictures.

“Indeed. I look like I want to douse myself in gasoline and light a match. That thought was going through my mind that night, actually.”

They weren’t exaggerating; they really did look pained in the pictures. It was kind of funny. John smiled, looked up and saw that Sherlock was grinning, and they started laughing.

“I wonder how my parents reacted to these,” John laughed.

“They probably overlooked our facial expressions and acted like these are the most gorgeous pictures in the world. Actually, that sounds more like my mother.” Sherlock scowled when John shuffled through and found a picture of him and Mycroft. “Burn it,” he said.

“Not a chance,” John said happily. Then he found a picture of him and Harry. It was obvious that she was drunk. John grimaced. “Okay, maybe we’ll burn those two.”

The remaining pictures were of John and Sherlock alone.

The first one had John and Sherlock standing together, John’s arm around Sherlock’s waist, their smiles uncomfortable. John remembered how Sherlock’s mother insisted that they engage in some type of physical contact for the pictures, but it only made them look more awkward (and John felt guilty for enjoying the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his arm, but no one needed to know that).

There were a couple others similar to that, but those pictures were fine compared to the last one.

The last picture of them together was when John kissed Sherlock after their vows. How the hell someone caught a kiss that barely lasted three seconds, John didn’t know, but there it was. In the picture, John’s face was relatively impassive, but Sherlock’s wasn’t. His eyes were wide opened and he looked totally unprepared for the kiss, his face tinged with pink.

All in all, the picture looked entirely unnatural.

Sherlock’s expression in the picture puzzled John. Did he look like that merely out of surprise, or was it disgust?

John swallowed, bracing himself before looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face was blank and John didn’t know what to make of that.

A chime from Sherlock’s phone erupted from his pocket.

Sherlock took his phone from his pocket and answered it, not meeting John’s eyes once. “Lestrade?”

John closed the folder and put it on the table. He didn’t want to deal with it now. He needed to get out. Going by Sherlock’s sudden smile, Lestrade must have been calling with a case.

“We’ll be there,” Sherlock said and pocketed his phone.

“Case?”

“Yes!” Sherlock ran over to his coat and put it on quickly. “Come on, John! It’s our first case in over a month! My brain will rot no more!”

Suddenly, it was as if nothing happened, and John couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

“Is it a murder?”

“Sadly, no. Some thief that keeps outrunning the police. Art thief. No fingerprints. No surveillance footage. His name is Burroughs.”

“You think we’ll have to chase him through the streets?”

“Most likely,” Sherlock smiled wildly. “You haven’t done that before.”

“Chased criminals through the streets? No, of course not.”

“You’ll have fun,” Sherlock said too cheerfully.

John shook his head. _This is him. This is the man I’ve fallen in love with. This is my life. And you know what? I’m no better than he is._

* * *

“John, we’re losing him!”

Heart racing, blood pumping, legs burning, the cold air of the night a crisp contrast from the heat on his skin—god, it was all so beautifully _thrilling._

Sherlock had known that Burroughs would be hiding in the alley behind some pet shop (how did he come to that conclusion? John couldn’t keep up with the deduction, but it sounded brilliant) and when they confronted the man, he took off.

John loved every second of it, but it was his first (hopefully of many) chase and while he frequented the gym and kept in exceptional shape, he wasn’t used to that much running. He willed his legs to run faster, but Sherlock was getting farther ahead of him. Damn him and his long giraffe legs.

He saw Burroughs sharply turn a corner and go into another alley, but it failed to throw Sherlock off. He followed the thief into the alley and John caught up with them thirty seconds later.

When John ran into the alley, wheezing slightly, he got there just in time to see the shine of a knife before it disappeared underneath Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock gasped in pain and Burroughs pulled the knife out, red staining the tip of the blade.

John felt an anger wash over him so intense it nearly knocked the breath out of him. He didn’t remember moving, but the next thing he knew, he had that bastard on the ground in a chokehold, the knife knocked out of the Burroughs’ hands and on the ground somewhere.

“You fucker,” John growled, squeezing his hands tighter around his throat. “You made a big mistake, you arsehole.” Hearing Burroughs struggling for breath only increased John’s anger. “How _dare_ you touch him,” he whispered fiercely.

He saw Burroughs’ eyes roll in the back of his head. John wasn’t going to kill him. That would get him thrown in jail. He just wanted to hurt him as much as legally possible. He squeezed tighter for two more seconds before he let go, moving his hands to the man’s hair, pulling it, and smashing his head on the ground until Burroughs was unconscious.

John got up, panting, adrenaline leaving him slightly dizzy.

He heard a cough to his left.

Sherlock!

John rushed over to the other side of the alley where Sherlock was slumped against the wall, holding his side, eyes shut tightly.

“Sherlock,” John touched his cheek.

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Lestrade—” he was cut off with a cough, “is coming. With an ambulance. Don’t worry.”

He was trying his hardest to sound fine, but John knew better. It was only their second case, and Sherlock almost died both times. What good is John if he can’t even protect someone? Sherlock could have died. He could still be dying. 

“Yeah, you were just stabbed, so I’ll worry as I please. He got you in the abdomen?”

“Just below the rib cage,” Sherlock said, a slight tremor in his voice.

“We need to do something—”

“It’s not too bad. I’ve had worse.”

“This is ridiculous! We can’t wait for Lestrade, who knows when he’ll be here?”

Then he heard sirens and lights from police cars were shining in the alley.

“Told you,” Sherlock said with the smallest of grins tugging at the corner of his lips.

* * *

 It was no surprise that Sherlock would be stubborn about the treatment of his own damn wound. The thick material of Sherlock’s coat had actually prevented him from getting seriously injured, but the gash below his ribs still needed medical attention.

“John is a doctor,” Sherlock protested, “he will take care of me.”

Lestrade looked like he was about to have an aneurism. “For the last time, get in the ambulance!”

Sherlock, somehow maintaining dignity while clutching his side, said, “I’d rather die.”

“Oh, for the love of god,” John marched over to Sherlock, “you can’t stand upright!”

“Which is why we should go home. You have a medical kit. I’ve seen it. Do your job, Doctor Watson.”

John’s fists were shaking. The bastard could have died and he was acting like getting stabbed was the most casual thing in the world.

“Isn’t it Watson-Holmes?” Lestrade asked innocently.

“No,” Sherlock said, “he kept his last name and I took his.”

“Oh,” Lestrade said lamely. “Well, I didn’t know. You still sign your texts ‘SH’.”

“It looks better than ‘SW’. I don’t really want his last name, anyway. It worked out since John wanted no indication of our marriage so he could pursue potential mates.”

John was certain he heard bitterness in his voice. They had agreed to that, but that was before. He didn’t appreciate Sherlock telling Lestrade all of this.

Lestrade was silent for a beat. “Ah. I didn’t know your marriage is, er, an open one.”

“Of course it is, John went on a date just last night.”

Okay, he was definitely bitter. What the fuck was going on? “And you said you have no need for a spouse, so we’re even,” John said through gritted teeth.

“And that remains true,” Sherlock snarled.

“Sherlock,” John snapped. “Get in the fucking ambulance before I pick you up and put you there myself. You think I’m kidding? Just try me.”

For a split second, Sherlock looked surprised before his eyes narrowed. They stared at each other for a long moment before Sherlock huffed and went to the ambulance, muttering to himself under his breath.

John sighed loudly and rubbed his temples, “Bastard, giving me a headache like that,” he muttered.

“So, married life not working out for you?” Lestrade asked, his tone teasing and a tiny bit awkward.

“If he wasn’t such an insufferable arse, it’d be fine,” John said.

“No honeymoon, then?”

John laughed at that. “A honeymoon with Sherlock? God, just thinking about that frightens me.”

Lestrade snorted. “You know, I’m kind of shocked that he listened to you. To go into the ambulance, I mean.”

“He’s probably too exhausted to put up much of a fight.”

“I don’t think so,” Lestrade said.

John didn’t know what he meant and he didn’t want to know. They stood in silence for six minutes before John asked, “You got Burroughs, then?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Wasn’t difficult to get him in handcuffs since he was unconscious. I’m assuming you did that.”

John shrugged. “Well, it was out of self-defense.”

“You don’t have a scratch on you.”

“He could have killed Sherlock,” John said tersely. “I did what I needed to do.”

Lestrade nodded vaguely. “Right. Well, Sherlock appreciates it. Secretly. He might not say it, but it’s true.”

“Yeah, sure,” John said, unconvinced.

“Really. We better shut up. Here he comes.”

Sherlock came out of the ambulance, hunched over slightly and scowling. “Can we finally go home?”

 

They rode back to Baker Street in silence, John feeling like an utter failure for not protecting Sherlock yet again. He was feeling a horrible mix of anger, guilt, and the desire to protect. He wanted to hold Sherlock against his chest and say, _“I’m sorry for letting you get hurt. I won’t let it happen again, I promise. Stop worrying me you infuriating creature. Please.”_  

Too much emotions for one day. He needed a drink.

* * *

 

 The next evening, John caught Sherlock staring at him from across the room by the window. They hadn’t spoken a word since the night before, having avoided each other all day, and now the air was heavy between them.

Sherlock saw that John was staring back at him and he looked away, biting his lip. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he frowned and shook his head to himself.

John remembered Lestrade’s words: _Sherlock appreciates it. Secretly._  

He decided to take a leap. “Sherlock,” he said, voice husky from disuse.

Sherlock looked back at him.

“You’re welcome.”

Sherlock blinked, then, ever so slowly, a smile lit up his face.

John smiled too, and the tension crawled back under the surface. It was endearing, really, how Sherlock struggled to voice his feelings. John could relate.

Sherlock moved away from the window and winced.

That reminded him. John looked at his watch. “It’s about time to change your bandages.”

“Is it really necessary?” Sherlock asked tiredly.

“You know it is. It won’t take long, just let me fetch my kit from my room.”

“Fine, but be quick about it.”

John was upstairs retrieving the kit from his drawer, pointedly ignoring the shine of the ring he knew was in there, and he heard Sherlock moving around downstairs. It almost sounded like he was running. When he went back into the sitting room, Sherlock was standing in the same spot where John left him, nonchalant.

“Did something drop? I heard noise coming from down here.”

“Nope,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been standing here the whole time.”

John raised an eyebrow. It was a lie and they both knew it, but he dropped it. He just got back on good terms with Sherlock and he didn’t want to screw it up over nonsense.

“Well, whatever. Shirt off.”

It was agonizing trying to treat Sherlock’s wound (which was healing just fine, thankfully) and not openly stare at the toned, pale chest. If John’s palms got a little sweaty, well, that couldn’t be helped. And if he imagined sucking one of Sherlock’s pink nipples until it peaked, well, could you blame him?

He knew that Sherlock was staring at him intensely, but he couldn’t look up. He might have kissed him if he did.

“Well, that should do it,” John cleared his throat. “You were right, it isn’t that bad.”

“John,” he said lowly.

 _Dear god, why does he have to have that voice?_ “Yes?” he asked casually while he busied himself with closing his kit.

Sherlock had that nervous look again, his plump lower lip disappearing beneath his top teeth.

Without any warning, Sherlock’s arms were around him in a tight hug. John inhaled sharply and automatically wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. Their chests were pressed together and he felt Sherlock’s heart beating against his own.

Oh god, Sherlock still didn't have a shirt on. His skin was warm against John's hands. John thought about what it would be like to have that bare, warm skin against his own in the night. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to start kissing Sherlock’s collarbone or nuzzle his neck.

No. He couldn't think those thoughts, not when his body might react and Sherlock would be right there to notice.

Just as quickly as he initiated it, Sherlock broke the embrace, smiled, and went into his room.

John stood there in the darkening room for a solid minute. “What the fuck was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what the hell is going on with Sherlock? What was he doing before John came downstairs? It's really not some shocking plot reveal; I'm not a good enough writer for something like that.


	8. Rings and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the awkward hug he initiated, Sherlock questions if he really has a chance with John. Then, something unexpected happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I intended to update sooner and school prevented me. I apologize.  
> Thank you all so much for over 200 kudos! That's the most kudos any of my stories has gotten, and I'm really grateful. Thank you, thank you, thank you! :)  
> By the way, everyone who commented guessed correctly that Sherlock was hiding his ring. I told you it wouldn't be something shocking.

Molly gasped in surprise when she walked into the lab. “Oh, Sherlock! I didn’t know you’d be here.” Sherlock looked up from his microscope with a harsh glare. She flinched. “What is it?”

“Your advice did not help,” he grumbled. “In fact, I believe I made things worse.”

“All I did was tell you to start flirting a bit,” Molly walked over to stand closer to him, “how is that bad advice?”

“It didn’t work,” Sherlock looked back to the microscope. He had felt a little pathetic about asking Molly what to do with John, but he knew she wouldn’t tell anyone or judge him. Surprisingly, it was easy to let out his problems to her.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“I initiated physical intimacy. He was tense the whole time.” The memory made him shudder. He wasn’t good at reading the mood, but even he could tell John wanted no part of it.

“O-oh. What exactly do you mean by, um, ‘physical intimacy’?”

“I hugged him.”

“That’s not really a bad thing to do. How do you know he was uncomfortable? Maybe he’s shy or something,” she shrugged.

“John isn’t shy. I’ve seen John flirt,” his fingers clenched on the table, “If he were comfortable with it, he would have said so.”

“Maybe you took him by surprise. Did you lead up to it?”

Sherlock glanced at her briefly out of the corner of his eye, “Not really.”

“Then that’s it,” Molly smiled, “you just caught him off guard.”

That couldn’t have been it. Even if he had surprised him, John would have eased into the embrace somewhat if he wanted it. It was sort of nice while it lasted, though. John’s jumper had been warm and soft against his bare skin….Wait.

“Molly,” he looked away from the microscope and turned himself fully towards her, “would you say that my state of undress was the main factor in him being uncomfortable?”

Molly’s eyes widened and her cheeks turned pink. “You were naked?”

“No,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He liked Molly, but her lack of logic irritated him to no end. “I was shirtless.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, that probably had to do with it. I mean, put yourself in his shoes: imagine being hugged, unannounced, by someone shirtless.”

When she put it that way, Sherlock saw his error. Damn. “Hug him with a shirt on next time?”

“It’s a start,” Molly nodded patiently, “but you might want to lead up to it more, you know? You can’t just surprise someone like that. Why were you shirtless, anyway?”

“He wanted to treat my wound.”

“I see. How is that healing, by the way?”

“Fine, fine, irrelevant,” he snapped and waved his hand.

“Wait!” Molly said suddenly. “You were shirtless, right? You didn’t have the ring on, did you?”

“Of course not,” he sighed. “I took it off and hid it before I removed my shirt. I’d never be stupid enough to let myself get caught.”

“That’s a relief. Look, Sherlock, don’t give up because of one awkward moment. Love is full of awkward moments!”

He felt himself flush and he looked down at his hands, “I don’t love him.”

“Yeah, lying to me doesn’t work, Sherlock. If you didn’t love him, you wouldn’t be wearing the ring under your shirt right now.”

Sherlock put his hand over his shirt where he could feel the ring beneath the fabric. “Shut up. Ugh, I’m leaving. I need to give my statement to Lestrade about the case.”

Molly smiled warmly. “You’ll be fine, Sherlock. Everything will work out.”

Sherlock ignored her and left the lab.

* * *

 Sherlock returned from Scotland Yard to 221B to find John making out with a woman on their sofa. He didn’t take another step. His blood froze in his veins. The air rushed out of his lungs. The only thing he heard was the sound of his own thumping heartbeat.

John and the woman didn’t notice, apparently, because they were still going at it. John’s left hand was cupping her cheek and his right was just below her breast. John’s tongue was in her mouth. The woman (taller than John, black hair, pale skin) had her arms wrapped around John’s neck.

She was touching his John. But no…John wasn’t his. The proof was right in front of him. John was never his.

She saw Sherlock and broke away from John, “Oh!”

“What?” John turned around and his expression went from hazy to horrified, “Oh, shit.” He and the woman moved away from each other. “I,” he cleared his throat, “didn’t know you’d be back yet, Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing because he couldn’t speak. He was faintly aware that his breathing was heavy.

“I should go,” the woman blushed and got up from the sofa.

“Cheryl,” John protested and grabbed her wrist.

She grinned but didn’t meet his eyes. “No, it’s okay. Another time, okay? I don’t want to disturb your, uh, flatmate?”

Sherlock didn’t bother clarifying that he was John’s husband for two reasons: John would be furious with him, and Sherlock still felt too numb to speak.

“Are you sure?” John stood.

“Yes,” she zipped her coat. “Another time.” She looked at Sherlock. “Sorry to have made a weird first impression,” she laughed weakly.

Sherlock gave a miniscule nod and moved away from the door, favoring removing his coat instead of looking at her. Cheryl’s lips were moistened by John’s.

Cheryl left and a heavy silence entered.

Sherlock didn’t want to look at John. He didn’t want to look at his lips, which he knew were still wet, and be reminded of what he just witnessed. Didn’t want to be reminded that it wasn’t him who touched John’s lips.

“Sorry, Sherlock, I should have sent a text to warn you or something.”

Sherlock hung up his scarf and walked to his bedroom.

“Sherlock!” John called. “Sorry, okay? Are you mad at me?”

Sherlock stopped and took a deep breath. He found the strength to speak, although his voice was quiet. “No, John. I’m not angry because you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Sherlock wasn’t lying. He wasn’t angry. He felt cold. The flirting he’d witnessed at the restaurant made him angry and protective, but actually seeing John kiss someone, to be someone else’s, made him feel like his heart had been stabbed with ice.

There goes Molly’s flirting advice.

“Okay, good,” John said. “That’s good. So, what is wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired.” He went into his room and shut the door without another word.

He collapsed onto his bed without taking off his shoes. He stared up at his ceiling and willed the heavy feeling to leave his chest. He was stupid to assume that John was interested in men. He was stupid to think he had a chance with John. Absolutely, inexcusably stupid.

He removed the ring around the chain from his neck and stared at it, its glint only mocking him. He closed his hand around the ring tightly and his fist shook. He spent over twenty years shielding his heart, and then John came in and stole it without warning. His heart ached with each beat, and he squeezed the ring so tightly that it was leaving an imprint on the skin of his palm.

There was a knock on his door and Sherlock shoved the ring under his pillow.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice came from the other side of the door.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was not in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone the cause of his grief.

“Sherlock? Well, I’m coming in anyway,” John said.

Damn, why the hell hadn’t Sherlock locked the door?

Think fast.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, facing away from the door, and closed his eyes. Maybe John would go away if he thought Sherlock was asleep.

Sherlock heard the door open and John come into the room. John took three steps toward the bed, his sock-clad feet making quiet thumps on the carpet. “Sherlock?” he asked, quieter than before.

Sherlock stayed silent. _Get the hint, John._

“Are you asleep?”

What a stupid question; if he were really asleep, how was he expected to answer that?

John sighed heavily. “Idiot, you didn’t even take off your shoes,” he said in a near whisper.

Sherlock tried to remain still as he heard John walk closer to the bed. It was difficult not to tense up when he felt John untying and removing his shoes. “Must I do everything for you?” John muttered.

Sherlock cursed himself for taking pleasure in John’s care for him, but he couldn’t help it. Both shoes were removed and John was still standing by the bed. He must have been trying to see if Sherlock were faking.

John must have decided that Sherlock was, in fact, asleep, because the next thing Sherlock knew short fingers brushed curls away from his forehead. John’s warm fingers smoothed over his skin and moved to the rest of his hair. It felt glorious. The sensation would have even been relaxing if Sherlock didn’t feel like he was about to have a heart attack. The effort to appear unconscious became torturous.

“What am I going to do with you?” John whispered so softly that Sherlock almost didn’t hear him. Then, his fingers left Sherlock’s hair and he walked out of the room, shutting the door quietly.

Sherlock sat up. What the hell was that? Normal friends don’t stroke each other’s hair, do they? John just did something borderline romantic, didn’t he? No, he was just shoving his tongue into a woman’s mouth not ten minutes ago. Don’t be stupid. It was just friendship.

Sherlock closed his eyes with the intent to actually sleep this time, but he remained awake for hours. Eventually, he fell asleep to the sound of John pacing in his room above.

* * *

 After that night, Sherlock and John acted like nothing happened. John didn’t mention Cheryl or bring her over again. For that, Sherlock was grateful.

Mycroft sent him a text at noon the next day: You’re a detective; isn’t observing supposed to be your specialty? MH

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer because Mycroft didn’t deserve to receive acknowledgment.

Over the next several days, the calm between them was forced. John’s smiles were a little too tight, and Sherlock still had a heavy feeling in his chest. He couldn’t get the image of John kissing Cheryl out of his mind. He still wore the ring around his neck, because why the hell not. At this point, Sherlock looked forward to when John went to work. He didn’t have to pretend when he was alone.

He was sitting in his chair and staring at the ceiling in despair when Mrs. Hudson came in, wincing and rubbing her hip.

“Oh, those stairs,” she said to herself. “Sherlock, you haven’t moved all day,” she chided.

“There’s no reason to,” he said.

“It’s not good for you to sit around all day.”

“Don’t care. Why are you here?”

“I came to get your laundry. I’ll wash it for you, dear, but I won’t get it from your room.”

Sherlock sighed and went to his room. He grabbed his dirty laundry (not much, considering he’s been in his pyjamas for days) and threw it in Mrs. Hudson’s direction. “There.”

She sighed and bent down to pick up the clothes. “Sherlock, would you get John’s, too? My hip isn’t up for another trip up the stairs.”

Sherlock grumbled and stomped up to John’s room. He took John’s laundry from the basket in his room and threw it down the steps. “There! Now leave!”

He heard Mrs. Hudson sigh again and she left the flat.

Sherlock was slipping back into his sulk, but stopped when he realized that he had never been in John’s room before.

A little snooping won’t do much harm.

Three and a half minutes later and Sherlock was disappointed. John’s personal belongings were sparse and uninteresting. He had no old family pictures that could be used for blackmail, though considering how John felt about his family, that wasn’t much of a surprise. John had some books, but they weren’t interesting either.

Sherlock huffed. That was dull. Why couldn’t John’s stuff be as interesting as he was? Sherlock’s eyes landed on the bedside table and realized that he hadn’t looked there. Although he wasn’t expecting much, Sherlock went over and opened the drawer out of boredom and curiosity.

His eyes widened.

In the drawer, there was a picture of Sherlock and John from the wedding. It was one of the only pictures where they didn’t look like they were in agonizing pain. John’s arm was around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock blinked. He didn’t know John kept any of the pictures. Actually, he didn’t know where any of the other pictures was.

But the thing that made his heart leap in his throat was the ring lying next to the photo.

Sherlock picked it up. It was clean, too clean to have been sitting in a drawer untouched for a month and a half. John must have been attached to it, but that went against previous data. Sherlock could feel his mind short-circuiting. Too many emotions were rushing through him.

He heard someone coming up the stairs, but he was too dazed to react in time.

It was John. “Sherlock, what are you doing in here?”

Sherlock shook his head to clear the fog. Wasn’t John supposed to be at work? A brief glance at the clock on the bedside table told Sherlock that he had stood there for hours. He really needs to stop doing that.

John saw the ring in Sherlock’s hand. He swallowed. “Sherlock, I’m going to ask you again: why are you in here?”

“It was Mrs. Hudson. She asked me to get your laundry.”

John’s fingers were bunched into fists.

Uh-oh.

“Mhm, yeah, want to tell me why you went through my things?”

“I…” Sherlock gulped and looked down at the ring. He needed to change the direction of the conversation. “Why do you regularly clean this and have a photo from our wedding in your drawer?”

John’s lip twitched. “Why did you invade my privacy?”

“Why do you have this?” Sherlock held up the ring.

“Don’t you fucking change the subject, Sherlock,” he growled.

“I was bored,” Sherlock said lamely.

John scoffed. “You are the biggest arsehole I’ve ever met, you know that? Fuck this. I come home from a long day at work to find you going through my stuff. Just what I needed. You know what? I need a drink,” he stormed out of the room and down the stairs.

“John?” Sherlock followed him.

“No,” John held up his hand in front of Sherlock’s face. “Don’t follow me. I need to get very drunk and you’re not going to stop me. Got it?”

Sherlock had a strong suspicion that John would punch him in the face if he protested, so he nodded meekly.

“Good. Don’t wait up. Don’t text me. Don’t call me.”

John stalked out of the flat and slammed the door shut.

Sherlock was left standing in the sitting room, the ring still in his hand. He needed to think.

He knew that John’s anger was his defense mechanism. He was shielding himself, but from what? His cheeks were reddened from anger…No, not anger. It was embarrassment. John was embarrassed. Embarrassed over Sherlock’s discovery. He didn’t want Sherlock to find the ring or picture. That’s why he hid them. Those items had to have sentimentality.  John cared about the items. Those items related to Sherlock. John must have cared about Sherlock. That was the only explanation. That’s why he stroked Sherlock’s hair. That’s why the gazes between them were often intense. But then, what about the women? If John cared for him, why did he want to be with other people?

Sherlock remembered when they fought at the crime scene.  _"You said you had no need for a spouse, so we're even."_

Did John think Sherlock was unobtainable? If he did, it was Sherlock's fault. He bitterly pushed John away out of hurt and jealousy, even going as far to say that he still didn't want to be married. 

Conclusion: John sought other people because he thought that he couldn't have Sherlock. Further analysis: John wanted him.

The revelation was breathtaking and Sherlock grasped the arm of the sofa to fight a wave of dizziness. God, Sherlock was an  _idiot!_ The evidence was there the whole time!

Sherlock sat in his chair and waited for John’s return. He needed to make things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, they're finally going to get it on. I promise.


	9. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally cut the crap and communicate with each other for once in their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, I apologize for the delay. The holidays occupied me. Speaking of which, I hope you had a great holiday!  
> HERE BE SEX, FOLKS. Our boys will finally stop being dumb and it leads to a cheesy sex scene. What can I say? I like cheese.

John had no idea what time it was when he got out of the cab and staggered to the door of 221B. There was an ache in his chest, but he was too drunk to remember why it was there. But that was fine. Mission accomplished. It took him over a minute to finally get his hand steady enough to turn the key in the lock, and another minute to work his way up the stairs to his flat.

He opened the door and found the sitting room dark and empty. He looked at the sofa. It was only a few feet away. His bedroom was all the way up a flight of stairs. That was way too much work. He took off his coat and didn’t bother to pick it up from the floor, barely managing to remove his shoes before he collapsed on the sofa, his head fuzzy and void of thought.

 

The next thing he knew, sunlight was shining on his face and he blearily blinked his eyes open. Oh god. The sunlight hurt. It felt like someone was stabbing his brain. He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. He didn’t remember getting a blanket last night, but he could have just forgotten about it. Whatever. That didn’t matter. The encounter he had with Sherlock was coming back to him. Sherlock had no right to go through his things. He kept asking why John had the ring and picture, as if he hadn’t deduced it already, that bastard. He probably wanted John to come out and say it so he could mock him. He was probably disgusted, but that wasn’t John’s fault; he took every precaution to make sure Sherlock didn’t find out about it. Sherlock’s the one who brought this on.

John sat up and rubbed his forehead. He needed aspirin. The sitting room was still empty and the flat was silent. Had Sherlock gone out?

After John took aspirin, he sat down in his chair. What was he going to do? Maybe he should call Cheryl and ask if he could stay with her for a few days…

No, he shouldn’t do that. He hadn’t spoken to her since Sherlock walked in on them. Speaking of which, why the fuck had Sherlock acted so weird that night? He almost seemed hurt, but that didn’t make sense. Sherlock didn’t want him. He made that perfectly clear. But then, there was that time Sherlock hugged him out of nowhere, but that could still be interpreted as friendship, right? Yeah, Sherlock was just unsure of how to express himself without crossing boundaries. The fact that he was shirtless while doing it was a coincidence. But did that explain the heated stares they had shared since the day they met?

John’s head throbbed and he rubbed his temples. He needed to get out of the flat. He had enough money to go buy a house, if he wanted. Did he want to leave? Did he really want to live a life without Sherlock? No. If he had to, could he? Yes, but not without misery.

John heard the door open and close downstairs and someone coming up the steps. _Please be Mrs. Hudson. Please be anyone but him._

Of course, it was Sherlock. The humiliation he felt the night before was flooding through him again.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, “are you all right? Does your head hurt?”

_Huh. Strangely considerate, for a jackass._ “Yes, and yes,” he said tersely.   

“Oh. Well, um, okay then,” Sherlock rocked on the balls of feet.

John turned his head away to stare at the wall. Maybe Sherlock would get the message and go away.

Sherlock walked across the room and sat down in his chair opposite of John, folding his hands together and looking down at his feet. “John, I believe there’s been some miscommunication between us.”

Statement of the century.

“Oh yeah?” John cocked his head to the side. He did not want to have this conversation. He wanted to hide.

Sherlock bit his lip, looking frustrated. “I’m not a man of words, John, and neither are you. I think this would go much better if I just showed you.”

“Show me what?” John asked.

Sherlock reached under his wine-colored shirt through the collar, his hand shaking ever-so-slightly. Before he pulled his hand out, Sherlock looked at John with wide, frightened eyes.

“Sherlock?” He leaned forward in his chair. What was happening?

Sherlock pulled out a chain with a ring around it.

It took John’s hung-over brain a few seconds to process what was in front of him. “Wait, Sherlock, that’s…” He swallowed and his heart started racing.

Sherlock smiled nervously. “Yes.”

John reached out and held the ring, as if to ensure that it was real. “You’ve been wearing your ring.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“A few weeks or so. I don’t know the exact date.”

“Weeks.”

“Mhm.”

“So that means…”

“Yes.”

He looked away from the ring to Sherlock’s face. “But…you said you didn’t want anything like that. With me. Or anyone. You even said it in front of Lestrade.” His voice sounded hurt even to him. He couldn’t help it.

Sherlock sighed. “That was true when we met, but that’s changed over time.” His gaze flickered down. “If I had known how you felt, I would have told you sooner. I’m sorry I gave you the wrong idea.”

John wanted to punch him. He wanted to punch Sherlock for making him pine for weeks and weeks and for giving him thoughts of unrequited love to keep him up at night and for making him throw himself at women to try to get over his said unrequited love.

But John was grinning. He was grinning so widely it hurt.

“I really hate you,” John said softly. “This whole thing could have been resolved weeks ago!”

“I know,” Sherlock said, beginning to smile again.

John hesitated for a second and then cupped Sherlock’s cheek, relieved when Sherlock didn’t flinch. “How long have you known, you know, about how you feel?”

“Since the day you chatted up that waitress.”

So Sherlock’s anger that day had been out of jealousy. John frowned, guilt creeping up on him. What the hell was wrong with him, flirting with that waitress with Sherlock right there? Even if he didn’t know about how Sherlock felt, it was still rude. “Sherlock, I didn’t realize—”

“I know that,” Sherlock said.

“So, you felt that way when I was kissing Cheryl?”

Sherlock shrugged with terribly feigned nonchalance.

“Oh, god,” John cupped both of Sherlock’s cheeks with his hands. “I’m such an idiot. I should have known. I mean, you said you didn’t want it, and that’s why I started dating her, but I still shouldn’t have—”

“John, shut up,” he rolled his eyes. “It’s fine. It’s my fault for being an arse.”

“You are an arse, but so am I.”

Sherlock leaned into the touch of John’s left hand, making his palm tingle pleasantly.  “Just don’t go seducing women again,” he said, eyes sliding shut.

“God, no. I’ve got no reason to.”

Sherlock hummed. “How long have you known, then? It must have been around when we got the wedding photos, correct? That’s why you kept one.”

“It was a little before that, actually. Since our wedding night.” He was glad Sherlock’s eyes were closed; it made confessing a lot easier.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”  He stroked Sherlock’s cheeks with his thumbs. “We’re so stupid,” he said tiredly. “You could have dropped a hint, you know.”

“I tried, but my seduction needs some work.”

“What seduction?” John laughed.

Sherlock opened his eyes and shook John’s hands away. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, no. Tell me.”

“I tried to let you know I was interested by initiating physical contact. Evidently, it didn’t work.”

“Hold on, was it that time you hugged me after I treated your wound? Was that your attempt at seduction?”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned rose-red immediately. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god.”

“Shut up!”

“You’re such a dork!”

Sherlock scooted back in his chair and brought his knees to his chest, hiding his face.

John laughed and knelt on the floor in front of Sherlock. “Don’t be that way. It kind of worked. I mean,” he lowered his voice, “it _did_ make me want to kiss you.” He smiled when Sherlock’s head shot up.

Sherlock then narrowed his eyes, but he was fighting a smile. “You’re a bad man.”

“Oh, absolutely,” John put his hands atop Sherlock’s knees and gently pressed down until they were away from his face. “There you are. That’s better,” he licked his lips and Sherlock watched him do it.

The sunlight shining through window highlighted the tips of Sherlock’s curls, making them appear light brown. His lips were parted slightly and his cheeks were still pink, his eyes holding traces of uncertainty. He looked so beautiful it pained John.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

John put his hands on Sherlock’s knees and leaned up to press his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s bottom lip was damp from when he’d bitten it earlier and as soft as silk.

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and gripped the hair at John’s nape, tilting his head slightly to the right for a better angle.

They kissed gently, the flat quiet save for the sound of their lips smacking together. John swiped his tongue across Sherlock’s full lips and they parted under his touch. Their kisses became hungrier until John found himself in Sherlock’s lap. When had that happened? Oh well. He wasn’t complaining. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s chest and casually brushed his thumb over one of Sherlock’s nipples.

Sherlock broke the kiss with a gasp.

God, he was precious. John licked into his open mouth and the heat of Sherlock’s tongue sent shivers down his spine. He sucked gently at Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock’s fingers tightened in his hair and his other hand gripped John’s bicep. He took John’s upper lip into his mouth and jolts of arousal shot to John’s crotch.

He sucked more and ran his hand over Sherlock’s chest again, not-so-subtly brushing Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock groaned and his hips jerked.

_Well, fuck._ Sherlock was getting hard.

John pulled away for air, panting a little, and stared into Sherlock’s darkening eyes. Being this close to Sherlock was a little bit surreal and entirely thrilling. John experimentally rubbed his growing erection against the bulge beneath him. Sherlock thrust his hips up against John’s, raising his eyebrow suggestively, though his eyes betrayed his nerves.  

John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and kissed and sucked the sensitive skin there, inhaling Sherlock’s scent, which was a combination of shampoo, hair gel, and the tiniest hint of cologne. John rhythmically thrust his cock against Sherlock’s, biting Sherlock’s neck to muffle his grunts.

“John,” Sherlock said breathlessly. He met John’s thrusts and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders.

John’s pleasure was climbing by the second, but he didn’t want their first time to be a four-minute fuck that ended with soiled trousers. He waited this long, damn it, and he was going to savor it.

“Wait,” John said and Sherlock stopped in an instant. John lifted his head from Sherlock’s neck and smiled dangerously. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to need fewer clothes. I want to see all of you.”

Sherlock swallowed and John pressed a quick kiss to his Adam’s apple. “I,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Okay. Should we move this to my bedroom?”

“Good idea. My legs are getting kind of cramped,” he admitted. Getting up was a little uncomfortable because of the tent in his trousers, but it was worth seeing Sherlock’s gaze fly to his crotch. John smirked and held out his hand, pulling him up from the chair. “Do you have much experience with this?”

Sherlock ducked his head. “Somewhat.”

“All right, just wanted to know.”

They went to Sherlock’s room hand-in-hand, the buzz of anticipation between them. When they got into Sherlock’s room, John stood on his toes to kiss him again. He unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and slid it off his shoulders.

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “I’m growing old here, John. Undress me or I’ll do it myself.”

John laughed. “That’s fine by me. Strip.”

“You, too. I won’t be the only one naked,” he grumbled as he unzipped his trousers. John couldn’t tell if the flush on his cheeks was out of arousal or embarrassment. Was Sherlock self-conscious?

Once John was bare, he turned to Sherlock to find him equally nude, the tips of his ears red. So he _was_ self-conscious. John didn’t know why; Sherlock was perfect in size and just overall gorgeous.

John kissed Sherlock fiercely to distract him, shoving his tongue past his lips and pushing him onto the bed.

“Bit eager, aren’t you?” Sherlock mumbled.

John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, straddling his thighs and rocking his hips. “You have no idea,” he growled and nibbled his earlobe.

John could hardly believe this was actually happening. Sherlock was beneath him, moaning, hard, thrusting, skin warm and damp with sweat, the ring shining against his flushed chest.

He was so. Fucking. Beautiful.

John must have said that out loud, because Sherlock shook his head and whimpered weakly into John’s shoulder.

John nipped Sherlock’s collarbone and ran his hands over Sherlock’s thighs, reaching under to grab his plump arse. “Sherlock,” he growled, thrusting faster, “my beautiful Sherlock.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hands and wrapped his legs (so long, so elegant) around John’s waist. “John, John, please kiss me.”

There was no other way to describe it; a wave of love crashed over John and he claimed Sherlock’s mouth. “Never ask,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t have to ask Sherlock.” He wasn’t going to last much longer, but screw it. There would be another day for taking it slowly. He squeezed Sherlock’s hands, “My gorgeous husband.”

“Fuck!” Sherlock threw his head back, “John, I think I’m—!” He grunted loudly and semen spurted from his cock, toes curling, back arching, and thrusts becoming erratic.

And there was no way in hell that John would be able to hold back after that. He buried his shout in Sherlock’s pale shoulder and collapsed on Sherlock’s heaving chest.

They lied there for a minute, the only sound in the room being their deep breaths. John rolled off Sherlock and Sherlock turned on his side.

“Hey,” John smiled lazily, feeling more content than he’d ever felt.

“Hi,” Sherlock smiled. “That was…good. Very good. Very sticky.”

John snorted. “Yeah. Hand me some tissues.”

Sherlock grabbed tissues from his bedside table and they cleaned up as best as they could. Traces of their release remained, but that would have to do. Sherlock threw the tissues on the floor and settled back down next to John.

“You’re just going to leave those tissues on the floor?” John asked amusedly.

“Too tired to get up,” Sherlock said into his pillow.

John wanted to bring Sherlock close and hold him, but didn’t know how he’d react. Sherlock may have cared for him (loved him?), but he might not be into that. Was Sherlock a cuddler? Sherlock’s hair was a mess from tossing and turning on the pillow. The curls looked fluffy. John couldn’t resist. He smoothed Sherlock’s curls away from his face, warmth blooming in his chest when Sherlock gave a deep, happy “hmmm.”

“John, what do we do now?” he asked softly.

John scooted closer and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes,” he said immediately.

John could have leapt for joy. In fact, it was difficult not to giggle gleefully. “Then we’ll continue living together, only there will be more of this,” he kissed Sherlock, “and we’ll be monogamous, yeah?”

Tension melted from Sherlock’s shoulders. “Yeah,” he whispered and kissed John tenderly. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s slim waist and kept the kiss gentle. He knew he would never grow tired of Sherlock’s soft, plump lips against his. “Your lips were just made for kissing,” he said without a thought.

Sherlock chuckled and John swore he felt the vibration of it in his bones. Sherlock snuggled into John’s chest.

Ah, he was a cuddler. Thank god.

The cool metal of Sherlock’s ring hit John’s chest. He had an idea. He removed the chain from Sherlock’s neck.

“John?” Sherlock lifted his head.

John took the ring off the chain and held it in between his thumb and index finger. “I know we did this all a bit backwards—I mean, we got married and only had our first kiss less than an hour ago—but let’s start to do things properly.” He pushed the ring onto Sherlock’s finger and kissed it.

Sherlock beamed. “Hold on.” He jumped from the bed and ran upstairs.

John wondered what he was doing but didn’t bother moving from the bed. He knew Sherlock was coming back, and he was too comfy. He went under the sheets and Sherlock returned with John’s ring in his hand, filling John with so much joy he was certain he would burst.

Sherlock climbed onto the bed and put the ring on John, kissing it as John did to him. “There,” he went under the sheets and laid half on top of John.

Sherlock was a tad too heavy, but John just wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his curly head. Sherlock’s bare skin felt amazing against his, anyway.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered into his neck.

And if tears welled up in John’s eyes, then thank Christ Sherlock couldn’t see. “I love you, too, you beautiful bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! God, I love them. This is not the last chapter, friends. I'll post an epilogue soon :)


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are happily in love. Period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to end this story with lots of fluff and smut. I hope you appreciate it.  
> I'm not completely satisfied with the ending, but it was the best my brain could do.

_6 weeks later_

 Sherlock awoke slowly on a Sunday morning, his brain fuzzy with sleep, the warmth of John’s warm body next to his. After a moment, he registered the feeling of his hair being stroked. He opened his eyes to find John staring down at him fondly.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” John asked.

“Mmm, maybe,” he said huskily. He cleared his throat. “It’s fine.”

“Kind of feel bad, though. You’re gorgeous when you sleep,” John said nonchalantly, twirling a curl around his finger.

Sherlock smiled shyly and felt himself flush. “Shut up.”

Since they became lovers, John was becoming much more open about doting over Sherlock (in private, of course), but Sherlock still found it a little difficult to do the same, afraid John would laugh mockingly at him. It was an irrational fear, he knew it, but nonetheless it took courage for him to express to John how much he loved him.

“Hello? Get out of that head for a sec, genius.”

Sherlock blinked. “Sorry, did you say something?”

John shook his head, but didn’t seem annoyed. “Yes, I did.” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s sides and rolled onto his back, taking Sherlock with him so that he was on top of John’s chest.

John held Sherlock securely. “Now I’ve got your attention. Anyway, I was saying that we’ve got nothing to do today; I’m off work and there’s no case,” his warm hand slid under Sherlock’s T-shirt. “We should stay here. In bed.”

Sherlock smirked. “Nothing to do? Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m a busy person, John. I could always start up a new experiment—” He was cut off with a gasp when John bit his jaw.

“You’re so full of shit,” John ran his thumb over the spot he’d bitten.

Sunlight coming through the windows was making John’s hair look even more golden than usual. John was like sunshine. Sherlock shook the ridiculous thought away. He noticed the stubble that John had yet to shave and he couldn’t resist rubbing his cheek against John’s.

“And you wonder why I call you a cat,” John chuckled.

Sherlock just hummed and kissed John gently. “So, you’re suggesting that we lie around all day?”

“Yep. I know that lying around all day isn’t your thing, but I think I can persuade you.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “I’d like to see you try.”

That would get John riled up and he knew it. In a second, Sherlock was under John, his wrists pinned above his head.

“You’re a dick,” John said and started to attack Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock smiled and wrapped his legs around John’s waist. His John: so predictable. John’s stubble felt pleasantly rough on his skin and Sherlock shivered. And, because he felt like being a little shit, he whispered in John’s ear, “Is that the best you can do, John? I might as well go in the bathroom and take care of this myself.”

“Ohhhh, you’re really asking for it now, Sherlock,” John growled and abruptly sucked Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth, making Sherlock groan in surprise.

Just when they were really getting started, their bedroom door opened to reveal Lestrade.

“Oh, Christ!” he yelled.

Sherlock felt his face burn. “Give us a minute!”

“That’s fine, I’ll come back later!” he shut the door and they heard his fleeing footsteps.

John sat up and started giggling, though the redness of his cheeks gave away his embarrassment. “Well, I guess he knows.” He rolled off Sherlock and started giggling again, covering his mouth with his hand.

Sherlock would be more annoyed if John weren’t so cute.

John looked at him with raised eyebrows.

Not again. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Mmm. You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

Sherlock rolled over. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t sulk,” John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I didn’t mind, you know, what you said, although I disagree with you.”

Sherlock rolled back over and scoffed. “You just giggled like a schoolboy; how am I not supposed to find you cute?”

John groaned. “Shush. Can we go back to foreplay?”

Their kisses were interrupted again when John’s phone started vibrating on the bedside table.

“Ugh, seriously?” John groaned and leaned closer to see who it was.

“Don’t answer it,” Sherlock said.

“Shit, it’s my mother. I should answer.”

“Why? You don’t enjoy talking to her.”

John ignored him and accepted the call. “Hello?”

Sherlock huffed and rolled over, closing his eyes and listening to John.

“Yes, hi…Really? That’s tomorrow? Why do we have to go?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. _We?_

John was beginning to get irritated. “No one will care if we’re there or not. You know I hate it, and I doubt Sherlock’s too keen on that type of thing, either. You know, we’re adults; we can just not listen to you.”

Sherlock sat up. He was intrigued.

“Are you serious? You—! I can’t believe….well, actually, you’re right. Yes, yes, we’ll be there.” He ended the call.

“What was that about and why did I hear my name?” Sherlock asked.

“My parents are having their yearly ‘we’re-rich-and-we-want-to-flaunt-it’ party tomorrow and they want us to show up.”

Sherlock scowled. “That sounds dreadful. We’re not going.”

“See, that’s what I thought at first, but then my mother pointed out that it’s the least we could do for her, since she helped bring us together.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Sherlock scoffed. “She didn’t care about whether or not you were happy with our marriage; she did it for her own selfish gain.”

“I know, I know, but it’s technically true.” John smirked and his voice dropped to a lazy timbre. “We _should_ repay my parents, though. I was  just thinking—what better way to show them our gratitude than for me to fuck you in one of their nice, expensive closets?”

Sherlock gasped so sharply that he started coughing. He could feel a blush spreading from the tips of his ear down to his chest.

John, still smirking, rubbed his back soothingly.

Sherlock didn’t really know how to react. The thought of having sex with the possibility of getting caught made him embarrassed and excited at the same time. “I…Yes, you’re right,” he said weakly.

John laughed and lifted Sherlock’s chin with two strong fingers, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m glad you see things my way, love.”

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he sighed. "Why does everyone insist on interrupting our sex life this morning?"

_**Are you done snogging your husband? I have something for you. GL** _

_We're busy. Call me in two days. SH_

"You're not even going to ask what he's got?" John asked, eyes wide. "Jesus, you must really love me."

Sherlock threw his phone across the room. "Shut up and kiss me."

* * *

 He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He could _not_ believe he was actually _doing_ this.

Sherlock’s long legs were hoisted around John’s waist and he was being fucked against the wall inside of John’s parents’ closet. His shirt was open and his trousers and pants were somewhere on the floor. John was completely clothed, though his jeans were pushed down by his knees. Even in the darkness of the closet, he felt exposed. It was too dark to see John’s face, which was a downside to dark closet sex, but otherwise, as much as he hated to admit it, it was _amazing._ The darkness almost made things more intense, and Sherlock had a difficult time keeping quiet when John was pounding into him with quick, sharp thrusts. They had been at it for around fifteen minutes and he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last. When Sherlock tried to muffle his moans, John pinned his wrists to the wall.

“Let them hear you,” John growled. “Let _me_ hear you.”

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and still tried to cut off his grunts. John was always fairly dominant in bed (and Sherlock could be, too, thank you very much), but never like this. The thought that there were people just outside of that door sent shivers down Sherlock’s spine and made his cock throb. “John,” he managed, “this is in..d-decent!” He groaned loudly through clenched teeth when John wrapped his hand around his leaking cock.

Sherlock slapped his free hand over his mouth and let moans and whimpers fall from his lips as John pumped him in time with his thrusts.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” John let go of his prick, causing Sherlock to whimper at the loss of sensation. “Let me hear.”

Sherlock obeyed and took his hand away, no longer caring about the people outside and panting through his open mouth. “John, _please!”_

“That’s it,” John stroked Sherlock again and gave one deep, sharp thrust.

Sherlock saw stars and came with a cry all over his abdomen and John’s fist. Toe-curling pleasure gripped his entire being and he squeezed his eyes shut, enjoying the wave. Through his daze, he heard John give a long “uhhhh” and he came inside of him.

They stayed like that, catching their breath, until John gently pulled out and lowered Sherlock’s legs onto the floor, holding his waist.

“Hey, you,” John said breathlessly and kissed the side of his neck. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock said, his mind slowly coming back online. “Where are my clothes?”

John pulled up his jeans and zipped them. “Somewhere around here. I didn’t throw them too far.”

“Found them,” Sherlock said and dressed himself, aware of the come that was seeping out of him. It was disgusting, but there was something appealing about it that he couldn’t quite figure out. He buttoned up his shirt. “Ready to go back?”

“Oh, yes,” John grabbed his hand and opened the closet door.

Once they were out of the darkness, Sherlock was able to get a good look at John. His hair was a little messy (Sherlock wanted to run his hands through it) and his eyes were somewhat glassy, but he looked presentable. Sherlock didn’t even want to know what he looked like.

John’s family members and his parents’ friends either refused to look at them or were giving them piercing glares.

Sherlock was a bit ashamed solely because his parents were there, but they gave approving smiles and nodded to them. That didn’t make Sherlock feel much better.

John’s parents were furious. Mrs. Watson looked absolutely humiliated and Mr. Watson stalked over to them from across the room. “What the _hell_ were you two thinking?! Those walls aren’t soundproof!”

“We know,” John smiled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand tighter.

Mr. Watson was so angry that he couldn’t speak for a moment. It took a lot of willpower for Sherlock not to smirk.

“And what’s _that?”_ he pointed in horror at Sherlock’s neck.

Ah, he’d forgotten about the hickey.

“I just decided that everyone should know how much I love my husband,” John said simply.

It had been weeks since their shared love confessions, but Sherlock’s heart still beat rapidly every time John said he loved him, even more so now that John was saying it in front of someone else. He was _proud_ of being married to Sherlock, and Sherlock absolutely did not tear up at the notion. That would be preposterous.

“Get out, both of you!”

“Yes, sir,” John said cheerfully and led Sherlock out of the house, the eyes of the room upon them.

They got outside, took one look at each other, and giggled uncontrollably. Every time they started to calm down, one look would make their laughter start up again.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John kissed his smiling lips softly. “Let’s go home.”

Sherlock hailed a cab and they rode home cuddled in the backseat, not giving a shit about the looks the cabbie was giving them. Sherlock felt sleepy, as he always did after sex, and spent the majority of the ride with his face buried in John’s neck.

“Sherlock?” John asked softly.

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever think we’d end up like this?”

Sherlock shifted so he could see John’s face. “Explain?”

John was looking out the window. “Well, when my parents told me about this, I thought of a bunch of possibilities for how it would end up, but I never thought it would be this.”

Sherlock sat up a bit. “I know. Believe me, John, I didn’t think this would ever happen. I mean, I didn’t think this would happen to me ever. Not just regarding you.” He hadn’t meant to say that. Now he sounded whiny and pathetic.

John turned his head to look Sherlock. “I’m glad it worked out this way,” he said quietly, a small smile forming at his thin lips.

Sherlock didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

John leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s and brushed their lips together. “Love you, dickhead.”

Sherlock smiled, “Love you, too, moron.”

They kissed softly and unhurriedly, warmth blooming in Sherlock’s chest and spreading down to his toes. John played with the curls at Sherlock’s nape and used his other hand to cup his cheek. Sherlock hummed happily when he felt the cool metal of the ring on his warm skin. _He’s mine forever. This is it. This is love. Fascinating._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! This was really fun to write! Thank you to everyone who left kudos/comments. You dudes made me keep going!  
> So, I want to write again, but my brain has no more ideas. If any of you have a prompt, please let me know!  
> Thanks for reading!


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